


Trench

by DragonSwirl



Category: Trench - Twenty One Pilots (Album), Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Gen, Minor Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:47:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 30,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22657258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonSwirl/pseuds/DragonSwirl
Summary: Welcome to Trench.In the lowest reaches of a barren world of grey and neon, there is a city called Dema, surrounded by walls and controlled by nine Bishops. There, children and adults of all ages are taught to perform with efficiency and obedience. There is no way out - but why would they want to leave? They have shelter, food, clothes, and most importantly, consistency.Also published on Wattpad under the same username
Kudos: 5





	1. Øne

**Author's Note:**

> I do not give trigger warnings. Read at your own risk. Stay safe <3

_ I think I long for something, but I don't know what. _

It was something he had been thinking about rather frequently, and it disrupted his focus during the day and prevented him from sleeping at night.

Today, they were studying Vialism. He tried to focus, but now that his intrusive thoughts had rooted themselves in his mind, he barely heard a word that was spoken. Instead of taking notes, he spun the pen across his fingers and stared out the window, his chin in his other hand.

The walls were taller than he remembered. Had they grown larger over the past few years? That couldn't be it. Perhaps another region was building it higher. He was too low to catch a glimpse over the wall today, but he caught sight of the Watcher perched on top, staring at him with its beady eyes, and he quickly returned his attention to the lecture. But after only a few short moments, his mind wandered again, until a grey hand rested on his desk and startled him out of his thoughts.

He instantly froze and slowly looked up in acknowledgement. He met the cloaked Bishop's eyes for a split second before dropping his gaze to the hem of his robe.

"Are you listening?" the Bishop asked softly.

The others in the room had their eyes on him now, and he felt a flutter of nervousness in his chest. He swallowed hard and nodded. "I'm trying, sir," he mumbled. He was afraid to tell the Bishop what he'd been thinking. He was afraid to tell him that today, he was a failure.

"Speak up."

He nodded again and repeated himself. "I'm trying to listen, sir," he said, a little louder.

The Bishop watched him for a long moment, and he began to sweat nervously. He would do almost anything to avoid becoming a disappointment. He didn't want to become like the last man, who had suddenly lost all focus and then disappeared, never to be heard of again. He yearned to make his Bishop proud, just like all of the others in his sector. With the way the Bishop watched him now, it seemed like he was becoming another nuisance.

At last, the Bishop spoke. "Then continue in your efforts. Someday, you will find focus. You all will. Then you will truly be worthy to represent our sector in the Assemblage."

He just nodded once more and avoided looking up.

"And put the pen down. Perhaps that will help."

But he found his fingers felt empty without it, so he put his hands in his lap to hide it.

The others' eyes stayed on him for the rest of the lecture, though not all at once. He stayed staring at the floor, pretending he didn't notice their stares. If he told anyone about these suddenly intrusive thoughts, nothing could stop them from twisting and exaggerating them, and then he could get in serious trouble for something he didn't even understand. He had to banish them by himself. That was the hardest part, especially as he hadn't the slightest idea how to do it.

He glanced up at the chalkboard and instantly, three others quickly averted their eyes. He wanted to ask them why they were staring at him. He thought about it for a moment and realized that he really just wanted to ask  _ why.  _ Why was he here? Why did he arrive at these lectures and complete these tasks every day with no thought whatsoever? And why had the Bishop seemed almost threatened by him when he caught him staring out the window? Why silence? Why order?  _ And who was he becoming? _

He realized he was staring out the window once again, the questions racing through his mind. He sat up a little taller, but he still couldn't see past the wall. What was out there, beyond the looming walls of Dema? What were they keeping out? What were they keeping  _ in _ ?

Something didn't feel right here. He had never noticed it as strongly before, but now, it wouldn't leave his mind. Something about the incredible focus -

His head suddenly snapped up as he heard the Bishop call his name, more sternly this time. The Bishops rarely called anyone by name. A name was a mark of shame, and he cringed slightly upon hearing his. He knew he was in trouble. But the Bishop only watched him again for another long moment, and then went back to the lecture.

He tried to listen. He really did. But listening suddenly felt tedious and mind-numbing, not to mention the fact that the words were blurry and hard to read, as they usually were. He dropped his eyes down to the pen in his lap, and then to the paper on his desk. He couldn't write here. That would surely alert the Bishops that something was wrong. He couldn't show anyone that he was abnormal. But perhaps if he wrote everything down, his mind would clear and he would be back to normal.

He glanced up at the chalk board to show the Bishop he was trying to pay attention, but now, his mind was far from the lecture. Everyone knew Vialism was mandate. Why must he sit here, week after week, hearing the same words over and over again?

The bell rang, signaling the arrival of lunch hour, he jumped up in surprise. The others stood much quieter, glancing at him as they slowly shuffled to the door. He wanted to take the paper with him, but the Bishop was watching him. Even though he couldn't see a distinct expression on his face, he knew he was disappointed. He felt his cheeks flush slightly in embarrassment, and he shoved his hands in his pockets and followed the others out as quickly as he could.

The cafeteria seemed quieter than usual, and he felt as though everyone had their eyes on him as he sat down at the corner of the table. For the first time, he felt like he didn't belong here. He thought he could hear whispers circulating the room, mocking him and bringing his mistake into the limelight.  _ I can't help it,  _ he wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut and his eyes glued to his tray.

The minutes ticked by like eternities. He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, barely able to keep his hands still, and finally, the bell rang again and he was the first to stand.

"You haven't eaten," the girl next to him noticed. She rarely spoke to him at all, and he wondered why she decided to now.

"I'm not hungry," he said, ducking his head and walking away, hoping he didn't look too rushed.

He quickly dumped his tray and started for the door. He managed to get out before most of the others, and it was as if a weight lifted off his shoulders. He could finally breathe without worrying about someone watching him.

Where was he assigned now? He couldn't remember, and since he was ahead, he couldn't follow anyone. He wanted to seem like he knew where he was going, so he continued walking straight forward, hoping he'd find his assignment eventually. 

But after only a few minutes of walking, the crowds behind him dispersed, and he found himself alone in the dark hallways. He knew exactly where he was, but he felt entirely lost. And though he was most certainly alone, he could feel eyes on his back, watching his every move. 

They couldn't find him away from his assignment. They'd punish him for sure, even though he hadn't done anything wrong. He shoved his hands in his pockets and to his surprise, his fingers found the cold body of the pen from earlier. He hadn't realized he'd taken it. He knew he should take it back, but at the same time, he found comfort holding it in his hand. The pen would have to stay. 

He picked up his pace, but slowed after only a second as he noticed something he'd never noticed before. He was almost to the courtyard, and though he'd passed this way hundreds of times, he'd never seen this particular door open. He turned his head slightly and looked inside, but only saw a staircase going up, nothing else. Every bit of common sense he had told him to leave. He was already in trouble. Sneaking around would certainly make it worse. 

He suddenly heard a pair of footsteps echoing down the hall behind him, and his heart nearly burst from his chest right then and there. He glanced behind him to make sure nobody was watching, and then he ducked into the passage and shut the door behind him. 

It was darker than he had expected. There was a soft beam of bluish grey coming from the top of the stairs, and it shed barely enough light to illuminate the steps, though he still stumbled a little near the bottom, where it was the darkest. And it was quiet, too. Not the silence he felt at night, when it seemed like the world was crashing down on him. This was a sort of peaceful quiet that calmed his nerves and slowed his racing heartbeat. He wanted it to stay forever. 

His footsteps were soft and scuffed as he slowly ascended, his hand on the wall to keep his balance. Once he reached the top, he paused again, partly in confusion, and partly in awe. 

The room was small, but it didn't feel cramped, even with all the dust, though it did make everything seem a little more out of focus than usual. The window was wide and open just a crack, and ragged curtains swayed gently in the slight breeze. He could almost see over the wall from here, and for a moment, he was able to ignore the rest of the room and focus on one thing. He ran to the window and stood up on his toes, straining to catch just a glimpse of what lied beyond. He could only see foggy outlines, and couldn't tell what anything was. Disappointed, he turned back to the room. There was only a table and a chair, and on the table sat a typewriter, a stack of paper, and some sort of satchel. 

Slowly, he pulled the chair out and sat down, as if in some sort of trance. He knew he wasn't supposed to be here, and yet for some odd reason, he didn't feel scared, if only for a short moment. He had some strange feeling that this was exactly where he was supposed to be. 

He stared at the typewriter for a long time, simply thinking. There was a page already set in it, with something scribbled faintly on the margin. He squinted a little, hoping to bring the writing into focus, but he couldn’t make out what it said. He didn't want to take it out, afraid he'd disturb that odd energy in this room, so he just stared at it. 

It only took him a moment to realize that those uncomfortable, disruptive, and questioning thoughts hadn't just appeared one day. They had quietly emerged from their dark hiding place in the back of his mind and slowly taken over. It had started months ago with one little question that he was able to quickly forget, but over time, it had come back, always stronger than the time before. He used to love and praise this city. What had changed?

His thoughts spun through his mind like a storm, and even the peaceful quiet couldn't calm it this time. He would have to try something new. He remembered his urge to write during the lecture before lunch, and realized that now, he had his chance. Perhaps he could find some meaning, some purpose in his thoughts if he recorded them.

But what would he say?

He had to start with something - so he started with the word he had learned to hate. The first letter clicked softly, and he cringed slightly. He had to finish now. And as he typed, slowly and surely at first, he became more comfortable, and let himself relax. 

Suddenly, his fingers flew across the keys like they never had before. He started at the beginning, and planned to record everything up until the present, but he quickly ran out of paper, and before he could set another page, the bell rang again. 

He nearly jumped out of his seat again. Dinner already? He had been in here for hours without realizing it. Had anyone noticed his absence? He slowly stood up and looked down at the page he had just written. It seemed like he'd written out a part of his soul. He couldn't just leave it here. He folded it very carefully and tucked it into his pants pocket, but his fingers brushed over the pen and he hesitated again. He needed some way to mark this as his own. It was his soul, after all, his story. So he unfolded the paper and withdrew the pen, and, after another long hesitation, he signed his name and stuffed them both into the pocket of his shirt before slipping down the stairs again and joining the others in their near silent march to the cafeteria. 


	2. Twø

_ Clancy_s Journal _

_The perplexities of the Dema horizon didn't occur to me until my ninth year. It was then that I began to contemplate the existential, and decide what type of impression I wanted my life to make. Naturally, to fuel my hope, I looked out upon the distance of the land that had cultivated me, only this time with a new awareness of the obstruction that my youthful ignorance had allowed me to overlook. Was it there the whole time? How had I not seen something so obvious? I am reminded of the moment daily, as the realization directly collides with a unique hope for my own future. As a child, I looked upon Dema with wonder, today, I am wrought with frustration, as I spend each day squinting for a glimpse of the top of the looming wall that has kept us here._ _It was upon my ninth year that I learned that Dema wasn't my home. This village, after all this time, was my trap._

_ Before I became realized, I had a deep affection for Dema. There was a wonderful structure to the city that put my cares to rest. Streets and locations were dependable, and the responsibilities of the day seemed to be accomplished with minimal effort. Once a task was taught and understood, we delighted in our ability to complete our obligations timely, and felt secure in knowing tomorrow's duties would be accomplished with the same efficiency. We all worked to represent our bishop with honor, and knew that each inhabitant of our region had a like-minded dedication to consistency.  _

_ Keons embodied the spirit of this dedication. Of Dema's nine bishops, Keons was revered as unwavering and forthright, possessing the ability to achieve focus that was rare for most in our region. We all admired him, and felt honored to be inhabitants his region. While we had heard legend of the ruthlessness of other bishops, Keons possessed a stoic demeanor unlike anyone I had ever met, and we were all proud to serve.  _

_ \- Clancy _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From dmaorg


	3. Three

There were more Watchers now than he'd ever seen in one place before. There were at least a dozen in view, perched on the surrounding roofs, all watching him through the window. Tyler just glared back at them and finished buttoning up his shirt, the patch on his back in plain sight. He knew they'd have their beady eyes on him for a long time, especially since there was only one month until the next Annual Assemblage of the Glorified. 

They would force him to attend their twisted ritual. They promised one day he'd be one of the Glorified, receiving the highest honor, if only he would trust them. He had almost laughed in their faces. What glory? What honor? 

Even though he knew they would be watching him especially closely that night, he still planned on attempting to escape again during the ceremony. He knew they'd see, but he didn't care. There was no way to stay hidden, not anymore. Perhaps then he might inspire others to join him. To his knowledge, there was no one in the city like him. No one he'd ever seen wore the badge he did. 

_ Let them see. Let them come.  _

What would they do to him if he was caught again? They were running out of ideas, and he knew it.

He glanced at the bed where his coat was hidden under the mattress. They'd tried to take it from him, but he'd only stolen it back time and time again. They hoped he'd forget about his desire to leave Dema, but it was only a matter of time before he got out for good, and they knew it .

Besides, he'd figured it out. There was something they couldn't see. They couldn't take what they couldn't see. 

Tyler wanted to smile, but instead, he forced his lips to form a tight line. He still had to be careful. He had to at least try to convince them that he was really changing this time. They'd already smeared him twice - or at least, he thought they had. That had worked for a while, but eventually, he'd remembered - or rediscovered, more likely - the deep longing for something more. 

Now, they were trying solitary confinement. He wasn't permitted to leave his room for any reason. He had his skimpy meals brought to him twice a day, delivered while he was in the bathroom or asleep. He thought that perhaps they were trying to smother his ideas with isolation. Even if it didn't change him, they didn't want him communicating his disruptive and mutinous thoughts to the other inhabitants of Dema, especially the younger ones. 

Although he hated being alone with his thoughts, he had somehow managed to survive them for years, and he was determined this time to gain something out of it. They gave him plenty of time to think, and he planned to use it to come up with another escape.

But what if he couldn't escape? What if they got him for good, or resorted to violence and fear? He found himself back at the window, standing on his toes to try and catch a glimpse of the mountains beyond the walls. If he couldn't be out there, if they trapped him here forever, he'd climb to the top of the wall and jump. 

_ No _ . He shook his head wildly. Then they'd just Glorify him like the rest. They'd twist his story. He'd become a self-committed martyr for their cause. 

The dinner bell rang, startling him for a moment. He shook his head again to clear his thoughts and dropped his gaze down to the streets, where the lines of people were heading to the cafeteria. He spent most meal times here, watching the other inhabitants and hoping that one of them would look up. He'd only seen one other man like that, years ago. They'd talked for only a brief moment before they'd split up, and he'd never heard of him again. He couldn't quite remember his name or his face, and he wondered what had happened to him. Had he escaped? Had he been smeared? Or worse - had he been Glorified? Either way, he doubted he'd ever see the man again.

Even though Tyler was nearly certain no one would look up and see him, he still watched them, waiting for something of mild interest to happen. He needed to know if he was the only one. He had a horrible feeling that he was. 

How could they all be so blind? How could they stay here, mindlessly following pointless orders day after day? Years ago, more of them wanted to leave. More of them saw past the Bishops' lies and planned their escape. What had changed? How had the Bishops brainwashed them all so well?

There, towards the back of the group - there was a young man who walked almost strangely, as if he was lost. He raised his head just enough to see eye level at times, but tried to follow perfectly in line like the others. Tyler felt like a Watcher as he studied him. Even from up here, he could see his flickering eyes, and something stuffed hastily into his shirt pocket. 

_ It can't be. _

Could it be another like him?

The young man's eyes flickered up and landed on Tyler, hovering there for the smallest of moments before dropping back down. The exchange lasted less than a split second, but Tyler knew the Watchers had seen it. If this man was planning his escape as well, he'd need to do it quickly, for now Tyler wasn't the only one who needed monitoring. 

_ Just keep going,  _ Tyler thought, as if he could hear him.  _ No matter what, I promise it's worth it out there. Just keep going, whoever you are. _


	4. Føur

A group of older residents often told stories to the younger ones on the long Sunday nights after mandatory worship. Though Clancy wasn't usually considered part of the younger residents of Dema, he often found himself listening intently and losing himself in their words. They told of a fantastic place called  _ home,  _ full of warmth and happiness and ease. But when they were finished describing home, they told how this city was their home. Prior to finding that room and writing his thoughts, he had always accepted it, as it fit with the Bishops' claims that he belonged here. But now, Dema didn't feel anything like the storytellers' descriptions, and he longed to find a place like that.

He slipped into the room that Sunday and stayed in the back, hovering near the door as the younger inhabitants filtered in. The storytellers' audience had slowly decreased over the years, but he never failed to attend, and he hoped they'd never stop. Even though he didn't believe that Dema was his _home,_ as they called it, he loved learning about the idea. Perhaps if he learned enough, he would someday find that place for himself.

But today, he found his mind wandering, and he couldn't listen to a word they were saying. Their voices filtered in and out of his head before he could entirely process the words.

It had been three days since he'd written the first page of his journal, but he still couldn't keep his thoughts quiet. They invaded his every waking moment, and people were starting to notice. He wasn't supposed to be noticed. He wasn't  _ allowed  _ to be noticed. Only those who were Glorified deserved attention, and he wasn't ready - or worthy - for a privilege like that. Besides, no one from his sector had been Glorified in years.

There - he caught himself falling down another tangent. He shook his head slightly and tried desperately to focus on the story one man was telling, but it was near impossible. Now, he was thinking about the way his Bishop had looked at him during the Vialism lecture three days ago. His hidden expression was more than disappointed, but he couldn't quite remember it well enough to decide what it could have been. Perhaps it was just disappointment - maybe he had thought their sector had a chance to have a Glorified this year, and now that Clancy was more disruptive than ever, that chance had been ruined.

At least he had been kind. From what he had heard, the other Bishops could be ruthless. Out of the nine Bishops of Dema, Keons was kind and gentle, though he was firm and strict as well. It was a rather odd combination, and, as he'd written in his first journal entry, he had never met someone quite like him. He was grateful that he wasn't in another Bishop's sector. He'd heard stories of others like Lisden and Nills, who had a sort of anxious energy that entered the room with them, or Listo, who he'd heard often seemed as though he loved and cared for his inhabitants until someone acted out of line - and then he turned his back on them completely. Clancy wasn't sure he would be able to live in his sector. At least Keons had attempted to help him during the lecture.

And then there were Reisdro and Nico. He had heard from a second hand account that they were the most ruthless of them all. They hadn't given an explanation. They had only said that when anyone looked at either of the two, they froze in complete terror. Reisdro had a voice as loud as thunder that seemed to shake the buildings around him. Clancy had heard him speak at the last Assemblage. Nico, however, rarely spoke, but when he did, his voice was quiet, but cold and penetrating, and he shivered simply thinking about it.

Once again, he realized he was on another tangent, and once again, he attempted to draw his attention back to the storytellers. His thoughts whirled on without his consent, and he finally accepted that he would no longer be able to listen.

But then his ears heard a word that caught his attention.  _ Banditos.  _ He had heard the myths a few times before, and he wasn't sure why he'd suddenly latched on to this particular story, but somehow, he managed to focus on it without becoming distracted.

_ There is a vicious group of people out there called the 'Banditos.' They roam the world outside, violent and uncontrolled. It's said that they wear bandanas over their faces and distort their voices, and that it is impossible to distinguish one from another. Sometimes, they will sneak into the city in the darkness and snatch people right out of their beds. They only take the ones who challenge Vialism, the ones who act up, and it's said that they kidnap them because they believe they could be one of them. They drag them out of the city, and they're never heard from again. One moment they are there, and the next moment, they disappear without a trace. _

This was how they began all Bandito myths. He remembered hearing the exact same paragraph recited by the first storytellers he'd listened to. It gave the background everyone knew already. The stories afterward, however, were always different. No, he corrected, they were all the same. The words were just slightly altered. The feeling was always the same. The moral of the story was the most repeated moral in the city.

_ Years ago, there was a young woman, perhaps sixteen years of age, who began to question this way of life. She believed there was another way to live, another way to survive. She no longer found happiness in her duties, and began to refuse the idea of Vialism. _

_ Her Bishop tried with all his might to bring her back to the knowledge of the truth, but she refused his help. She refused to be saved. And one day, she refused to come out of her flat. _

_ That night, the Banditos came. _

_ They smashed through her window and broke down her bedroom door, muffling her screams with their tape. All she could do was stare in pure terror at their distorted faces, masked by their filthy bandanas, as they taped her ankles together and her hands behind her back, and then dragged her through the window and dropped her to the street. They silently carried her out of the city that night, and it was only recently, when one of the monsters was caught and tortured, that we found out why she had vanished so suddenly. They never found the breach. _

Many of the older listeners rolled their eyes or groaned slightly, though most of the younger ones, the children, stared with wide, terrified eyes. If they believed the stories, they'd eagerly embrace Vialism. After all, that was what he had done. But then, they would grow up, and soon find that that was all they were - stories. Even so, they still found themselves unwilling to even question Vialism. So why did he?

And once more, his mind was entirely off topic.

He lingered in the room after the storytellers were finished, waiting for the dregs of the audience to filter out through the door, and then he hesitantly approached the one who told the myth of the Banditos. He looked to be a few years older than he was, but as with everyone, it was hard to tell.

"Excuse me," he said very quietly.

The man turned slightly. "Yes?" He had soft brown eyes that eased some of the pressure in his chest.

He took a shaking breath and forced his hands to stay down by his sides. "Can you tell me more about the Banditos?"

A tense silence followed his question, as if the entire world held its breath. The man seemed confused and taken aback, as if he hadn't ever expected to hear such a question, and Clancy wished he had held his tongue and kept his thoughts to himself.

"There isn't much more to tell," the man said slowly, testing his words. "It's a children's story. A myth. The Banditos don't actually exist."

He stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking and resisted the urge to grab his pen from his shirt pocket. "Oh. Of course not. I...I was simply curious. That's all. Thank you." Before the man even had a chance to take in his response, he turned and marched out of the room. His strides felt awkward and clumsy, and the more natural he attempted to act, the worse it became.

He had the sudden urge to curse at himself, and nearly did so, but he quickly bit his tongue hard enough to make himself wince, and the words stayed trapped inside his head where they belonged. The Bishops had forbidden cursing years ago, but he had never had the desire to curse before, and he was surprised he had remembered the words at all. In fact, he wasn't sure he would have known them at all if it hadn't been for the man a few years ago who had suddenly disappeared - the one he had thought about earlier that week who had become distracted and disruptive. In fact, he remembered very vividly that the man had suddenly stood up one day during a lecture and marched to the door, a vile string of curses flying out from between his lips like acid. That had been the last time Clancy had ever seen him.

It seemed only natural for him to connect the myth he'd heard only minutes before and the vanished man.  _ What if, _ he thought with the same wonder he'd felt as a child,  _ they really do exist?  _

_ Then I am going to end up just like the woman in the story, aren't I? _

But he went dutifully to worship and lectures and assignments, and stayed precisely on schedule as often as he remembered. He never doubted Vialism - at least out loud. He hadn't done anything to earn him more than a scolding, but maybe that was enough to catch the Banditos' attention.

_ You're being silly,  _ he scolded himself.  _ Of course they're not real. Even if they were, they would never manage to breach the perimeter. The Watchers would catch them. _

But again, didn't he long to be out there, just to see what it was like?

He decided it was time for another trip to the room with the lonely typewriter.


	5. Five

Unsurprisingly, once he reached the room, he was uncertain how to begin or even what to say. He wanted to continue his previous journal entry, but at the same time, he had storms of unrelated words fighting to break loose onto the page.

He was afraid to even touch the typewriter, though he wasn't sure why. Perhaps he was afraid someone would hear or see, or that maybe a Watcher was spying through the window. He stood up abruptly and drew the ragged curtains closed, dimming the soft blue light in the room. He didn't like the darkness. It held a sort of pressure to his throat like a knife, stifling his words and choking his breathing. But there was no choice. He had to continue writing, and he needed to take precautions to be able to do so.

Writing was a sort of release. It had only happened once, when he'd written his first entry, and though he had felt panicked and tight smuggling it home, it had felt wonderful to finally express what he had been thinking in physical, written words. He wanted to do it again, but he didn't know where to begin.

Dema wasn't his home. That was the only thing he really knew for sure. A place that suppressed individuality was not where he belonged, no matter what they said. Perhaps he should write that.

He slumped over and rested his head on the desk, drawing mindless swirls on the back of a page as he attempted to decide what words he wanted. Slot. That was a good word. Everyone and everything was so perfectly form-fitted in city. Precise. Days passed very march-like, aimless and rigid. He would be lying if he said he didn't find comfort in the consistency of Dema, but he wanted  _ more.  _ He existed here, nothing more. He longed to know what was out there, beyond the walls. He longed to know what it felt like to truly  _ live.  _ There was only one problem. He didn't want to draw attention to himself. He was still loyal to Dema, he thought, but he was disruptive. But was it really so wrong to crave knowledge? He didn't want to be told over and over again that the world outside was dangerous. He wanted to see it for himself. He wanted his own testimony, his own witness of what lied beyond these walls.

And yet he believed the walls were keeping them in, not protecting them. And though he couldn't prove his idea, he was almost positive he was right. There was something unnerving about the incredible focus and dedication the inhabitants had to their Bishops, even though they were almost completely brainwashed.

He felt as though he was asleep, living in some bizarre dream. He couldn't see the truth yet. Everything was hazy, unfocused, blurry. He pinched his arm almost absentmindedly, as if that alone could somehow clear the fog that veiled his mind, and then winced in pain as nothing happened.

He hoped he'd find a way to see the truth eventually. He wanted to find a way to wake up. He was becoming aware, becoming realized, and had been slowly doing so for years now. It was time to finally understand what the Bishops had been hiding from him. Why was he here? What was the whole purpose for this city? What was he supposed to become?  _ Who  _ was he supposed to become? And how was he supposed to do it when he was forbidden to even think out of line?

His curiosity broke his already strained focus, and he realized he'd let his mind stray slightly from the rather daunting task of deciding what to write. He found himself mindlessly writing his name over and over on the page. It was a word he'd been taught to hate, but now he felt some odd sense of comfort in it. His name was the only unchanging thing he had with him. His name and his previous journal page. So he wrote his name again and again,  _ Clancy Clancy Clancy Clancy,  _ and the more he wrote it, the more he loved the way the letters looked against the page, the way the  _ l _ looped and the  _ y _ curled, the contrast of black ink on white paper. He whispered it softly to himself and cringed at first, but then slowly became accustomed to the soft  _ cl  _ sound and the slight whistle of the  _ cy. _

_ What an odd feeling, _ he silently remarked,  _ to have to grow accustomed to your own name. _

But what to write? He only had about an hour before lights out, before he would really be in trouble, so he had to hurry. It would have to be brief, but meaningful. It had to convey his thoughts.

Then he came up with a question he hadn't thought of before. Who was he writing to? It felt as though he wasn't writing  _ to _ himself, though he wrote  _ for _ himself. He explained things he already knew. Perhaps he was writing to the younger inhabitants of Dema, the ones who listened to the stories just as intently as he did. And maybe one day, he almost let himself believe - one day, someone just like him would find his entries and read them, and gain the courage they needed to go on. They would find comfort knowing that amidst this dreary world of grey and neon, they were not alone.

And with that in mind, he began writing.


	6. Six

_ To refer to Dema as my home has never felt accurate. Dema, to me, has simply been the place that I've existed, or the 'slot' they've put me in. I've heard stories about the idea of "home," and its depiction has always seemed warm from the storyteller's description. There was a romantic ownership of the place they inhabited that I admired, but could never relate to. This place, my place, however, seems devoid of the romance and wonder that the old stories tell. But somewhere between the iron order and fallible precision of Dema, a hum of wonder exists. It's this quiet wonder that my mind tends to get lost in. This hope of discovery alone has birthed a new version of myself; A better version, I hope, that will find a way to experience what's beyond these colossal walls. _

_ \- Clancy _

_ you are still sleeping _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from dmaorg


	7. Seven

They must have decided he was showing signs of improvement, because they let him out ten days later. Tyler stepped out into the street and noticed how big everything looked from below. He'd never noticed it before, but he'd spent the past month looking down like a Watcher, and feeling powerful while doing so, as if he knew more than anyone else. Now, he felt rather insignificant. He was just another ant scrambling through the streets of Dema, like everyone else. He was no one special.

And yet they watched him like he was. Not just the Watchers and the Bishops, but everyone around him. They looked at him as though they knew he was next to be Glorified. The corners of his lips tipped up into a wry smile. If only they knew how wrong they were. He was getting out, no matter what happened. 

He decided that the patch on his back just below the collar of his shirt was the cause of the ever-present staring. He hadn't seen another badge like his in years - not since he'd been as loyal as the rest of them.  _ Identified as Failed Perimeter Escape,  _ it said,  _ by Dema Council. Violation of Section 15398642_14 of Vialist Code of Conduct.  _ He hadn't been to a lecture on Vialism in months, but this was the one section he knew, the one section they drilled persistently into his mind. This was the section outlining the insignificance of the world outside of Dema - the world he heard them call Trench. According to the Bishops, Dema was their only chance at survival, and nothing else mattered outside of the walls. Everything was entirely meaningless. He didn't believe that in the slightest. He'd seen vast fields and towering cliffs, and colors he'd never seen before. Dema was dark and grey, and even the neon rods that gave them light were cold and had a sort of darkness around them. Out in Trench, the air was lighter, warmer, though the terrain could be treacherous. He would much rather endure what the Bishops called insignificant than stay in this mundane, repetitive world for the rest of his life. 

He found himself in the main square of the city, a wide open courtyard with a statue in front of the main entrance. There were tall buildings surrounding the square, small apartments -  _ homes,  _ they called them - where the inhabitants of Dema lived, and though many windows were open, no one was looking out like he had. He noticed that though many people were in the square, talking quietly with those they feebly called friends, their voices were monotonous and dull. They spoke just as mindlessly as they obeyed. No one spoke any differently. Tyler knew there were storytellers, but he'd listened to them a few times, and they were just the same. Everyone was the same here, and he felt more alone among hundreds of people than he had outside in Trench, without a single human being in sight. 

It had been about a month since he'd escaped last, and he wondered suddenly if they had ever discovered how he'd actually gotten out. They claimed that their walls were impenetrable, but he had gotten out at least four times - though he'd taken a different route each time. He wanted to see if the breech had been secured, but he knew it was too risky, especially now. If they didn't know where it was yet, they would certainly figure it out if he checked now. 

Instead, he walked a circle around the courtyard, watching the other inhabitants as they talked with each other. It was all small talk. Simply asking how their day was, what they did, how they slept, et cetera, et cetera. He wanted someone to talk to about anything else. He wanted everyone to stop staring at him. The Watchers kept their beady eyes on him at all times, but he was used to that by now. It was the stares of the people he couldn't stand. 

His Bishop had called him abnormal, deranged, insane, and at this point, he was starting to believe it. He had thought there had been more like him, when he'd first attempted an escape. He had even met a few, years ago, but they had all disappeared, one by one. Had they succeeded? Had they been killed? Or had they actually lost their desires to leave? There was one more possibility, and though he didn't want to consider it, he couldn't ignore it. Had they been Glorified?

_ We are going to make you sane again.  _

The voice in his head hit him so suddenly that he stumbled, throwing his hands out to catch himself. Most of the people around him stepped back, but one person jerked forward and caught him around his shoulders as he fell. His movement felt very instinctive and mechanical, and Tyler looked up in confusion, only to be caught completely by surprise. 

It was the same young man he had watched from the window a few weeks ago. Frankly, he was surprised he'd remembered him at all. There was something about his eyes, something about the way he looked at him with a furrowed brow and a slight squint that made Tyler pause. This young man looked completely and utterly lost. His eyes searched Tyler's desperately for something,  _ anything,  _ but before they could linger for long, he dropped his gaze and released him with a muttered apology. He pushed past him, nearly knocking him over again, and shoved his hands in his pockets. Tyler thought he saw the slick body of a pen between his fingers, but it vanished as suddenly as it came before he could be sure. 

"Thank you," Tyler called to him, hoping to ease some of the tension he saw in his shoulders, but the lost young man flinched and seemed to shrink smaller. Tyler tipped his head slightly. That was odd. Maybe he was - 

_ Forget about him,  _ that voice told him, startling him again.  _ He can't be like you. You are the only one. You are  _ insane,  _ remember? _

He sighed and ran his hand through his short brown hair. He knew that was true. He knew deep in his gut that something was wrong with him, but he had accepted that long ago. He knew who he was. Or at least he thought he knew. Either way, he couldn't really change it. 

_ But they can. We can. We can make you sane again.  _

"Get out," he whispered. 

_ Listen to me, Tyler. They can help you. Go to him. He'll help you. He will make you better.  _

"Get out," he hissed, louder this time. "Get out of my head."

A few people glanced at him before they returned to their mundane conversations. He ignored them, and ignored the voice in his head as much as he was able. 

_ Go to him. Go to him.  _

But instead, he left the square and found himself down a back street, near the place he'd escaped the very first time. Subconsciously, he touched his neck and shuddered as he remembered. 

He had climbed the wall and had nearly made it over when the Watchers attacked him. They tore at his clothes, his face, his hands, snapping with their beaks and claws, beating at him with their massive wings and screaming at him like demons. He'd fallen from the wall - he could still remember what it felt like to fall, colors flashing through his vision, his scream catching in his throat, his hands grasping at nothing. He could almost feel the wind on his back, whistling through his ears, taunting him. The beady eyes of the Watchers stared at him as he fell, circling above until he hit the ground with a sickening thud. Then they folded their wings and dove down to greet him. He'd thought he'd broken his back. He couldn't move, and he couldn't breathe. But he was out. He was outside of Dema for the first time, yet he couldn't look around. He could barely see. But he could feel something different. 

And then  _ he  _ came. 

But in that moment, he'd looked like a savior. He'd knelt next to him, his red robe billowing out around him like a crimson flower, and gently pressed his fingers against his neck. 

It had been cold; a sort of soulless cold that seeped into his bones and froze his mind, choking his hope, strangling the light. And then Tyler had forgotten. He'd forgotten why he had wanted to leave. He'd forgotten what it felt like to be out in Trench, and though he'd only felt it for a moment, he had known it was  _ different.  _ It was  _ freedom.  _

That was their weapon. All they had to do was smear his neck and he would forget everything. He would be back in their power once again. They had this tremendous power, and what did he have? A feeble hope and the ashes of a plan?

_ Exactly.  _

"Exactly," he echoed.

_ You will never get out of here for good.  _

He let himself smile slightly. "I have something they don't," he said. 

_ Oh? And what's that?  _

"Hope."

He brushed his hand along the wall as he walked, already feeling a bit lighter. The tiny spark of hope in his chest grew just a little brighter, and filled his chest with warmth. 

He suddenly noticed something on the ground, something he hadn't seen anywhere inside of Dema. It was a flower petal, but it was  _ yellow.  _ There weren't any colors in Dema except grey, red, and white neon, but there was certainly no yellow. If anybody else saw it, would they even know what it was? He'd only seen yellow out in Trench. The second time he'd run, he'd found a backpack with a roll of tape, some food, a canteen, and a piece of paper with a list. On the list, there was a name for the color. Yellow tape, it had said. Then his Bishop had smeared him again and he'd forgotten all about it until he was digging through his closet one day. 

Yellow. To him, yellow symbolized hope. Yellow symbolized fire and passion. He smiled again as he picked the pedal up between two fingers. For a long time, he'd wondered why they hadn't taken it from him when they'd taken him back, and then slowly, he'd figured it out. It was the one thing the Bishops couldn't see. 

He couldn't wait until the Assemblage. He had to leave as soon as possible. He had to leave  _ now.  _


	8. Eight

Vialism lectures had never been so boring in his entire life. Clancy drew swirls on his page of notes as he listened, half-heartedly scrawling something down to appear as though he was paying attention. This was the last assignment of the day, and then it was off to mandatory worship and straight to curfew. He wished he could skip worship and hide up in the room with the typewriter, but he could tell Keons was watching him closer now, and knew he would notice his absence if he failed to attend.

He risked a glance out the window and saw two Watchers staring back at him. They couldn't know his thoughts. That was impossible, wasn't it? But he had thought smearing was impossible, too, until he'd seen a public smearing nearly a year ago. It was a peculiar and frightening sight, though at the time, he hadn't understood why. Now, he did. When he had looked into the mirror this morning as he was shaving, he'd startled himself into dropping his razor blade and nicking his jaw. He'd seen the same light in his eyes in someone else - in two people, a young woman and a man, the two who had been smeared in the square the year prior. Their Bishop had slowly snuffed out that light, leaving nothing but cold ashes in their eyes. He'd seen them a few days later, and they had both thanked their Bishop for saving them and teaching them the way of righteousness. It had been an example to show everyone that they were safe; to show that if they had invasive, inappropriate thoughts like those two had, all they had to do was inform their Bishop and he would fix them.

Clancy had been tempted more than once to approach Keons and tell him his thoughts, but the thought of being smeared terrified him. Though it had been almost calm, it had seemed to him that the Bishop was strangling them. The two in the square had gone rigid as if in pain, and had then relaxed like they'd been drugged. Though he was curious, he had no desire to know what that felt like. Besides, he wanted to figure things out for himself. He didn't want to fall back in his Bishop's help.

But when he'd seen the light in his own eyes, a deep sense of terror had rooted itself in his stomach. What would they do if they found out? Would they smear him and get it over with, or would he be punished? He'd tried to conceal it - he'd tried desperately to hide the hope in his eyes, but it was no use. He knew others could see it, and he knew that that was the reason the Watchers kept their eyes on him at all times.

From the front of the room, his Bishop mentioned the Assemblage that was to occur in ten days. He already dreaded attending, but if there was one event he absolutely couldn't miss, it was the Assemblage. He only wished there was some way to avoid it.

He found himself scribbling disconnected words and phrases down on his page as his mind tried to stay clear in a hurricane of thoughts. He couldn't stop, even when his hand began to cramp up. He couldn't hear his Bishop speak anymore. All he heard was the deafening roar of silence.

_ Life is meaningless. You are insignificant. They will find you. They will find you. It's all pointless. Life is meaningless. Live to be Glorified. Live to die. Get out. The compass lies. Get out. The compass lies. Get out get out get out get out _

His heart was thudding like a war drum in his chest. He couldn't see clearly anymore. He could barely breathe at all. The air caught in his throat. All he could focus on was the black ink against the white page, dirty blood smeared across his soul, across the perfect, perfect streets of Dema -

He hit the floor with a muffled thump, and suddenly someone was touching him, holding him with gentle but firm hands. Keons. For a moment, he nearly panicked, thinking he was being smeared, but the Bishop was holding his shoulders, not his neck, and had silently knelt beside him. The world tipped and tumbled around him and nearly hit his head on the floor, only saved by his Bishop. His hands and knees were shaking almost to the point where he could no longer hold himself up. He could breathe now, but his breaths were short and ragged, making his head spin. He tried to look around, but everything was doubled and he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for it to be over soon.

Keons gently rested his head on his chest, holding it there with one hand and surrounding his shoulders with the other. Feeling the Bishop's steady heartbeat and deep breathing helped relax him, and slowly, he began to regain control. He kept his eyes shut as he turned his head to hide his face in Keons' soft red robe, embarrassed he'd let himself fall out of control again. He hadn't had episodes like this since he was a child. Why had one suddenly surfaced now? He gripped his Bishop's robe with his shaking hands and felt tears burning in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into the Bishop's clothes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Breathe with me."

Keons' gentle voice broke through the storms of fear and anxiety, and Clancy finally managed to take a deep breath. He focused on matching his breathing with the Bishop's, and finally, after a painfully long moment, his grip on Keons' robe loosened. Slowly, he pulled his face from his chest and looked up at him. For a moment, he felt as though he was a child again, looking into his father's deep brown eyes, but the feeling quickly vanished as he was met with a grey face shrouded with a veil. He quickly released him and leaned back. "I'm sorry," he whispered again.

"When was the last time you had an episode?" Keons asked softly.

Clancy shifted uncomfortably, keeping his eyes on the floor. He wished everyone would stop staring. He could feel their eyes on him, and that made him feel abnormal. "I - I can't remember. It's been a long time."

The Bishop made a soft humming sound as he thought. "Can you stand?"

"I think so."

Keons stood up, and Clancy followed slowly, leaning against his desk for balance. The Bishop turned to another young man staring at them. "Walk him to the nurse's office," he said, before turning back to Clancy. "I want you to tell her everything, alright?"

He nodded, but he felt that same growing sense of dread in his stomach again. The Bishop knew. Somehow, he  _ knew  _ he'd been thinking about escape.

"Don't worry, my son. We will get you fixed up in no time." Keons gently clapped his hand on his shoulder, and Clancy thought he saw him frown when he flinched. "Now get going, you two. The rest of you open your books to chapter fourteen."

Clancy stumbled to the door, keeping his hand on the wall for balance. The other young man glanced at him warily, but didn't move to help him. Though Keons continued his lecture, he kept his eyes on them as they left the room, and though he had asked another to assist him, he didn't say anything as Clancy stumbled and fell once again. The other young man glanced at him in frustration, but waited for him to get back on his feet to continue on.

Once they left the room and started down the building's cold grey hallway, the other finally spoke. "So what's wrong with you?"

_ What's wrong with you? _

He flinched as if he'd been slapped.  _ Nothing. Nothing is wrong with me. If anyone is wrong, it's you. You are asleep. I am awake.  _ "I don't know," he whispered.

"I've never seen anyone do that before," he said. "Frankly, I've never even heard of it."

"Keons just calls them episodes," Clancy muttered. Each step required a ridiculous amount of focus, and he had to speak slowly and deliberately. "I've had them since I was a child."

The other just hummed softly in response and didn't say anything else. He wondered what he thought about him. The young man tried to hide it, but he could see him glancing at him every few steps, though he never made any move to help him when he stumbled or fell against the wall. It took him a moment to realize that he was  _ scared  _ of him. He didn't blame him. He was almost scared of himself, too. But at the same time, he knew something the other inhabitants didn't. He saw something they couldn't, and that made him different. Different, to them, meant something was horribly wrong. It made him an outcast, even though no one knew exactly what set him apart.

At last, they reached the nurse's office, and he slumped over on a chair, feeling as if he had walked the perimeter of the city nine times over. The nurse lowered her clipboard and looked him over with mild distaste, and then forced a smile. "What can I help you with?" she asked.

Clancy glanced at the other young man as if for support, but he only saw his back as he left the room. Keons wanted him to tell her everything, and though he took a breath to obey, his conscious stopped him. His tongue refused to form the words he thought he needed to say. He knew he'd get in trouble if he told her the cause of his anxieties. He was acting out of pure instinct; out of self-preservation.

"Well?" the nurse prompted impatiently.

He could only sit there with his hands between his knees, staring at the floor with wide eyes and a frantic heart. He wanted to go back to the quiet room with the typewriter and write until he knew what was going on.

"If you won't tell me what's wrong, you'll have to return to your assignment."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and she paused.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated. The tension in his neck and shoulders was giving him a headache, and his chest hurt with something he couldn't identify. He wanted to cry, though he wasn't entirely sure why. He couldn't cry here. He was an adult now. He had grown up, and he wasn't allowed to cry anymore. Instead, he sat there silently and fought the tears back to the best of his ability.

"You'll have to tell me what's wrong, or I can't help you," the nurse said, running out of patience.

"I can't control myself," he said softly.

"Explain."

"I just...I -" And then he spilled what had happened during the lecture. Somehow, he managed to hide what he'd actually been thinking, and made it sound just like some sort of episode, like Keons had called it. Then again, there was danger in that as it was. It only proved that something was wrong with him. Everything was so wrong.

The nurse didn't speak for a long time. She just watched him, her eyes flickering across him as if she could find some physical indication of his abnormality. He hated the way her eyes picked him apart like a Watcher, exposing every bit of vulnerability. He suddenly had the violent urge to claw her eyes out and run, but he forced himself to sit still, other than his continual shaking.

Finally, she turned to her clipboard and wrote something down, her eyebrows raised and her eyes suggesting that he was wasting her time. "It seems as though you had some sort of attack."

"An attack?"

"Yes, an attack. And you said there were no triggers?"

"No," he lied, and his stomach twisted at how easily the lie rolled off his tongue. There was yet another thing to add to his guilty conscious. Lying was virtually unheard of in Dema, and he was surprised at how easily he'd done it.

"Then it was most likely a panic attack," she said.

"Is that normal?"

"Of course not. But you'll be fine. Go back to your assignment."

That didn't seem right. Shouldn't she help him? "But isn't there something you can do to help me?" he asked softly.

"No," she said. "Return to your assignment immediately."

He stared at her for almost ten full seconds before he could bring himself to stand. He slowly rose from his chair, his knees shaking, and could barely stay upright. Though he wasn't trying to get a reaction, he could see her beginning to get angry as he tripped on the way to the door and knocked a bottle off of the counter. He quickly apologized, but she would hear none of it.

"You're begging for attention," she snapped, and he flinched, his heart starting to race once more. "Somehow, you've convinced yourself that this is really happening to you. It's not. You're making it up, and you're making a scene. Do you want to be Glorified or not?"

"No," he whispered.

Her eyebrows shot up her forehead. "What?"

"I don't want to be Glorified." He could see the black words on the white paper again, as clear as if they were right in front of him.  _ Live to be Glorified. Live to die.  _ But there had to be more to life than that. Was he the only one who believed that?

The nurse blinked for a moment, and then huffed slightly. "Well, good. Because you will never be worthy of an honor like that."

Her comment felt like a punch to the gut, and yet it was as if a weight had been lifted off his chest. He couldn't figure out why it felt like that, but he didn't have time to dwell on it, not here. The feelings were indistinguishable in his heart, and he didn't have the words to describe it. He almost apologized again, but then paused. Why apologize for feeling? She didn't understand what it was like. She had no right to hear his apology.

_ It's time to wake up. _

"Go back to your assignment," she said.

He nodded and slowly left the room, but he wasn't going back to the lecture. He was headed to the typewriter.


	9. Nine

Clancy was almost to the typewriter's room door when he saw someone there, resting against the wall, as if he was waiting for him. He flinched as he saw him, and stumbled back, nearly losing his balance. He quickly hid back behind a wall, his heart pounding, and barely gathered enough courage to look around again.

Surprisingly, he recognized him. It was the same person he'd caught when he tripped in the square, a few days ago.  _ That's odd,  _ he thought.  _ What is he doing here? _

As he thought about it, he remembered seeing something in his eyes, too, something almost like a muted hope. Clancy couldn't tell if it was muted because he was submitting to Vialism, or if it was because he was better at hiding it. Clancy almost wanted to talk to him, but he was too afraid to initiate the conversation. Besides, he was in a different Sector. No one spoke to the inhabitants of other Sectors. It wasn't necessarily forbidden, but it was noticed. No matter what, there was something about him that made Clancy nervous, but also intrigued him. Was he another like him?

He quickly shook his head. No. Of course not. He was alone, and the sooner he accepted that, the better off he would be.

When he looked back to see if he had left, he was frustrated to see that the stranger was still there. Did he know about his secret place? For some reason, that was rather upsetting. The room upstairs was  _ his _ room, his secret place. He didn't want to share it with anyone else.

He couldn't sneak in with someone watching, but he couldn't go back to the Vialism lecture, either. He decided he'd go back to his apartment and get some rest, and figured that that was the easiest action to get away with if anyone asked.

The streets seemed so much longer as he walked. He had never roamed the city when the streets were empty, and he didn't like it. He could feel someone's eyes on his back as he walked, and when he glanced over his shoulder, he saw two Watchers staring at him, their heads tilted and their feathers ruffled. Someone was going to catch him, and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to get away with lying again.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and gripped his pen tightly for comfort, but it did little to calm his frantic heart. He kept his eyes glued to the ground and picked up his pace, but he nearly tripped over his own feet. He suddenly remembered what he'd written on the page during his attack.  _ Get out.  _ He had to get out of here. The thought scared him, and he shook his head wildly.  _ Not Dema _ , he decided, though he wasn’t sure,  _ but here _ . He had to get off of this street.

Though he had walked these streets for most of his life, for some reason, he felt completely disoriented, as if he didn't know where he was. Logically, he knew he was a few streets away from his apartment, still in Sector Three, but the world spun around him and every building looked the same.

Something in the ground suddenly caught his eye, something unusual. He slowed out of curiosity, his gut telling him that this was important, though he wasn't even sure what it was. He stooped down to pick it up and to his surprise, it was soft and smooth. It was thin and flat, and weighed almost nothing, and was shaped like a sort of wide teardrop. He glanced up to see that the Watchers had come closer, so he quickly shoved the curious object in his pocket and resumed his journey back to his apartment.

As he walked, suddenly calmer than before, he pondered on what he'd seen. It was so familiar, and yet so different. What was it? Was it dangerous? Where had it come from? These questions plagued his mind until he found himself mindlessly walking in circles, and realized that he had returned to the hall with his secret room.

The other man was gone. His heart leapt in excitement, and he quickly rushed to the door and practically flew up the stairs. The curtains were still closed, just as he had left them, and the typewriter still sat quietly on the desk. Eagerly, he sat down and faced the page, his fingers itching to type and type and type. But then he remembered the strange object in his pocket, and quickly dug it out for further study.

After racking his memory for what felt like an eternity, he remembered what it was. It was a flower petal. There were no flowers in Dema, except for the few blood red roses the Bishops kept for ceremonial purposes. But this petal wasn't red. He wasn't sure  _ what _ color it was. He'd never seen it before. It was almost the color of the white sun, only darker. It was like the color of his pale skin, but...different. The harder he squinted at it, the more confused he became, and eventually, a headache surfaced behind his eyes, and he had to withdraw his attention.

He turned his gaze to the satchel sitting next to the typewriter. Though he had been here twice before, he'd been afraid to open it and disturb whatever was inside, but now, he couldn't focus on the typewriter until he knew what it held. There were two straps buckled closed to keep the top shut and protected, and he slowly unlatched them with trembling fingers. 

It was a camera. He'd only seen one once before, when he was roughly twelve or thirteen. It took pictures, but why would someone want to take pictures? The answer came suddenly: to look into the past and remember. The Bishops didn’t take pictures. They didn’t even film for security. They had the Watchers for that. 

He picked the camera up slowly and carefully, half expecting someone to burst through the door and catch him red-handed. He twisted the lens slightly and looked through the eyepiece. Everything looked slightly distorted, as if he was squinting his eyes more than usual and looking through his eyelashes. He pointed the camera at the window to see a line of Watchers sitting on the wall, staring at him. Without thinking, he felt his finger press down on the top corner button, and something snapped, and then a blurry, black and white photo fell from the body of the camera. Surprised, he put the camera down and looked at the shiny piece of paper. Sure enough, it was a picture of the line of vultures on the wall. The corner of his lips tipped up into a smile, and that almost surprised him more than the photograph. He hadn’t smiled in a long time. 

The whole thing was fascinating. Where had it come from? Who did it belong to? And how had it ended up in this forbidden room? He had to restrain himself before he took more photos, afraid that he’d use up all the paper or ink or film. He wasn’t entirely sure what was in it, but he knew he had no way to replace it. 

He studied it for a few long minutes, trying to find any sort of hint as to who it belonged to or why it was up here, but he came up empty handed. Eventually, he returned the camera to the satchel and turned back to the typewriter, only to have his eyes drawn back to the flower petal on the desk next to him. Where had  _ this  _ come from? It couldn’t have blown in from over the walls. They were too high, and that meant it would have come from somewhere high up as well, but there was nothing that tall beyond the walls. Whenever he managed to catch a glimpse of the landscape outside, he saw nothing but rugged hills and rocks. Once, he thought he’d seen mountains, but then the grey fog had returned. That was all he ever saw. 

But this - this was a new color entirely, and it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It reminded him of the lifeless neon tubes that lit the city of Dema, only warmer and more inviting. It was...happy. That was the only way to describe it. The color was warm and happy, and his smile grew wider. 

It felt almost unnatural to smile. After a few minutes, his jaw and cheeks began to ache, as if protesting the unfamiliar expression, but he couldn’t stop. Everything here was amazing, and he couldn’t help but smile at the wonder.

His smile suddenly faltered as he realized that Dema was devoid of the wonder he used to see. This was the first time he had felt truly excited and curious in years. When he had first arrived, he had wandered through Dema with childish awe. They had promised to protect him and keep him safe from the horrors of the world outside of those walls. And he had believed them.

His fingers twitched over the typewriter in distress, as though they couldn’t bear the thought of acknowledging the fact that his entire life was a lie. He let his eyes rest on the flower petal again, and with a shiver of uncertainty, he began to type.


	10. Ten

_ A lifeless light surrounds us each night, Never could I imagine that something so luminous could feel so dark. It’s this glow that reminds us of the dreamless existence we’ve been sentenced to. But what I call a sentence, others accept as normalcy. How did they so efficiently eradicate the dreams within us? When the bishops instituted Vialism as mandate, they effectively reversed the hope that many arrived with.  _

_ Am I the only one who realizes that we’ve been lied to? Am I the only one not afraid of the notion that the nine have hijacked our trust, and extinguished the hope that once motivated our existence? We used to close our eyes and picture a better life, now this city is full of dry eyes caught in a trance of obedience, devoid of an identity. The only significant light I’ve seen has been in the eyes of those smeared - such a curious sight, to see bright eyes strangled by the darkness of bishop hands. As their penance fades, so dims their memory of something more. My hope of something more is all I have in this rigid tomb, and I will not let it die. _

_ \- Clancy  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from dmaorg


	11. Eleven

His hands shook as he packed his bag once again. He’d lost count of how many times he’d replaced his supplies, but he never forgot what to bring or where they went in his bag. Scraps of food he’d saved over the past few days. Canteen of water. Yellow tape. Sunglasses. Scraps of paper to add to his map of Trench. Strips of cloth he could wrap to create a torch.

Tyler couldn’t tell if he was more terrified or excited. He had no idea what the Bishops would do to him when they caught him again.  _ When.  _ He quickly shook his head. He didn’t know if they’d catch him this time. He had to believe that he’d really do it this time. 

As much as he hated to admit it, he was losing hope. Not hope of escape, necessarily, but he’d been dragged back time and time again, and it was getting a little exhausting. Why did he even bother if he knew they were just going to find him again? 

He shook his head again, more violently this time, and a small headache surfaced behind his eyes. He tried to suppress the thoughts of hopelessness, but the more he thought about  _ not  _ thinking about them, the more he thought about them. That was the basis of Vialism. Escape was pointless. They would be caught no matter what. So why try? Why doubt this world? They were just going to slip back into the stream of followers once they returned, and return was inevitable. Tyler knew that better than anyone else. Why did he trouble himself day after day? 

_ There’s beauty out there,  _ he insisted, desperate to convince himself. He couldn’t give up now. Though he couldn’t quite remember what it looked like or what he’d found before, he knew it was drastically different from Dema, and he longed to see it again. 

He finished packing and put on his jacket, adjusting the strips of tape and then throwing the hood over his head. He shouldered his pack and then looked around at his room for what he hoped was the last time. The cold neon tubes in the middle of the room stared unwavering back at him. He couldn’t wait to sleep in a place without them. 

A chair, a desk, a stiff bed, lifeless neon - he had nothing to miss here. But out there - though he wouldn’t have a bed or a roof over his head, he would have his friends and family, and that’s all that mattered. And he’d finally be able to see her again. 

Her. He opened the drawer he’d filled with yellow flowers as he thought of her. He couldn’t remember her name or what she looked like, but he knew he loved her with every piece of his heart. He remembered promising her something, but he didn’t know what. He was itching to finally remember and to finally meet her again. Love was a strange emotion. He could remember what it felt like, but he couldn’t remember who he loved. He couldn’t wait to be with her again. He had a life out there he’d attempted to start over and over, but the Bishops had always taken him back before he could get very far. But this time would be different. He hoped.

It was dark outside, and the streets were empty. There must have been a mandatory worship tonight. As he thought about it, he realized that he didn’t even know what day it was. They had more worships and meetings every year, determined to remind their subjects that the Bishops were their only hope. 

If only they could all see what was beyond Dema’s walls. 

The Assemblage was in just under two weeks. He knew he had to stay hidden now, but at the same time, he wanted to run right out in the open and try to convince others to come with him and experience true beauty. He had tried that in his early escapes, but he was always dragged down trying to help another. Though he wanted to help everyone in the city, he knew that was impossible. If they were going to get out, they had to do it themselves. Besides, they were all so brainwashed now that he doubted any of them would have listened anyway. 

His steps were brisk and deliberate as he traveled through the near silent streets of Dema. He had slowly been stashing bits of rubble and trash in a corner near the back of the necropolis, and he had enough cloth and tape to make an impromptu rope. He planned to use his stash of garbage to get as high as he could before he climbed, and then use his rope to slide down the other side. While he knew it probably wasn’t the best plan he’d ever come up with, right now, it was the only plan he had. He knew there were tunnels, but he hadn’t been able to find them, and with preparations for the Assemblage growing more frequent by the day, he knew he couldn’t wait long enough to find one. At least all nine of the Bishops would be at a worship service tonight, so it would take them longer to come to him when he was seen. He knew the Watchers would see him and raise the alarm. He hoped the delay would be enough to get over the wall, and this time, he had brought a weapon to protect himself with if the Watchers decided to attack him again.

He looked up at the empty windows of the flats the Bishops called  _ home _ . He wondered if he’d somehow touched that young man he’d seen twice before. There had been something different about him, but it had been a long time since Tyler had watched him from his window, and he hadn’t seen him long enough in the courtyard to really figure out what it was. If he was another like him, Tyler hoped that he’d be able to someday find the tunnels and escape. 

Then suddenly he saw him. It was only a glance before he was gone, but it was enough to make Tyler stumble. He could have sworn he’d seen that young man watching him from the window just as he had done those months ago. Why wasn’t he at mandatory worship? And for a moment, Tyler let his hopes raise. There was no way to contact him, not without drawing too much attention, but at least he knew now that he wasn’t alone. Someone else shared his opinions about the Bishops’ twisted rituals and lies. 

He wanted to stop and look for him, but he knew he was running out of time. Besides, he looked confused and scared, and if this was his first time escaping, which was most likely the case, then he would only slow Tyler down. He turned his head and kept his eyes glued to the street in front of him, but he couldn’t get him off his mind. Asking couldn’t hurt, could it? After all, if he agreed to come with him, they had a slim chance of getting out together, and Tyler could always climb first, just in case. And if he said no, even if he turned him in, there would still be a delayed response from the Bishops, and Tyler would be in just as much trouble as he would have been before. Nothing could go drastically wrong, could it?

The logical part of him urged him to keep moving. He was running out of time, and he didn’t want to find himself stuck at the wall when worship was over. But if that young man really  _ was  _ someone like him, he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him alone in here. 

Ignoring every instinct he had, he spun on his heel and started back toward the apartment. 

He slipped into the entrance hall as quietly as he could, cringing as his footsteps echoed in the silent room. He went straight for the stairs and climbed to the second floor, where he’d seen the young man. He didn’t know which apartment was his, but everyone else was gone, so he’d just knock until he found it. 

He went up and down the hall twice before panic and doubt crept into his heart. No one answered. The entire building was eerily silent. There were no footsteps, no voices, no bumping or shifting. It was as if no one had lived there at all. 

Who was he kidding? He had probably just imagined that man in the window, desperate for someone to join him. Going through Trench alone was almost as bad as suffering in this world. The endless stretches of land could be exhausting, and a lonely traveler could easily get discouraged. He had proven that over and over again. Sometimes, when he was alone for weeks, he wasn't scared when his Bishop retrieved him. In fact, sometimes, he was almost relieved. 

Even if the young man had been there, he had refused Tyler’s help, and he couldn’t stay here any longer. He had already wasted enough time already. He returned to the staircase, glancing back once more, and then thudded down the stairs, gripping the handrail until his knuckles turned white. He ran across the entrance hall and threw open the door, and then his heart stopped.

A dozen Watchers were perched on the ground and the surrounding buildings, muttering to themselves in smug satisfaction. And right in front of him, a faceless Bishop in a blood red robe stood with his hands outstretched.

_ No.  _

Tyler scrambled backward, but he couldn’t back up fast enough. The Bishop’s withered grey hands latched around his throat, and with one slow and almost gentle movement, he smeared his neck, strangling Tyler’s desperate scream for help before it could even escape his lungs. The Watchers screamed in triumph as he staggered. Everything rushed in as a heavy chill ran through his entire body, freezing him in place, and then before he had completely processed what had happened, everything went dark.


	12. Twelve

Clancy had never run through the streets of Dema before, nor had he ever been this afraid. The moment he had heard the Watchers’ scream, he’d run. He took no thought as to where he was going. He just ran, his heart pounding and the blood roaring in his ears. He had never heard them scream like that before, and it chilled him down to his very core. 

His legs began to ache and his lungs were on fire, but he knew he couldn’t go back. The screams had come from just under his flat, and he didn’t dare return, too afraid of what he might find. But he had nowhere else to go, and worship would end soon. 

He found himself near the same hallway as his secret room, and though it was risky, especially with the uneasy Watchers, he changed course and headed toward it. He flew around the corner and collided head on with someone running in the opposite direction. The force actually knocked him over, and he fell on his backside with a yelp. 

The girl he had run into glanced at him and muttered an apology, and then stuffed her hands in her pockets and hurried down the street. Just before she turned the corner to leave his sight, he noticed something sticking out of her pocket. It was the same color as the petal he’d found a few days ago. Maybe she could help him. 

“Wait!” he called, his voice working without him. She barely glanced back before breaking into a run once more and vanishing around the corner. Clancy scrambled to his feet and took off after her, his entire body protesting. He had never run this far before, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d truly exercised. 

He managed to turn down the street and catch a glimpse of her as she disappeared around another corner. He’d never catch up to her at this rate. But he had to try. He had to know. He couldn’t turn back knowing that he’d willingly let this knowledge slip through his fingers.

The next street was completely empty. The girl was nowhere to be seen, and the world seemed to stand still. He slowed to a walk, his eyes scanning the streets as if he could find her if he looked hard enough, but it was as if she had never been there in the first place. 

After what felt like a wild chase through the city, he didn’t know what to do next. He was still too afraid to go back, and now he was afraid that if he went to his secret room, worship would be over and someone would catch him. 

He took a hesitant step to head to his flat, and then a calloused hand clamped over his mouth, muffling his shriek of surprise. Before he knew what was happening, someone pulled him into a dark corner between two buildings and pressed something sharp up against his neck.

“Don’t say a word,” she muttered in his ear, and he nodded vigorously, his heart nearly bursting from his chest. 

She backed up, dragging him with her, but forced him to stay facing the street so he couldn’t see her. He made a soft, involuntary noise of protest as he stumbled, and the blade pressed harder into his skin and her fingers tightened painfully over his mouth. What was going on? Who was she? She must have been the girl he’d followed, but that still didn’t answer any of his questions. He had never heard of anything like this happening before. 

No, that wasn’t true. He’d heard of kidnappings time and time again. He just hadn’t believed them. After all, they were just stories. The Banditos didn’t actually exist, did they? 

The girl’s nails dug into his skin and he cringed. They certainly felt real.

What was she going to do with him? Was she going to take him out of Dema? That didn’t sound too bad, but at the same time, he had no idea who she was or what she planned to do once they actually got out. Given the choice, he would have run back to his apartment in a heartbeat. 

“What are you doing?” someone else hissed. Clancy didn’t dare try to see who it was. “Are you trying to get us smeared?”

“He followed me here,” the girl said, obviously frustrated. “He wasn’t at worship.”

“You think we should turn him in? Then they wouldn’t pay attention to us.”

Clancy’s breath stuck in his throat and he shook his head desperately. He didn’t think he could face Keons after this. The guilt always seemed to crush him whenever those gentle shrouded eyes met his.

“No,” the girl said, and he breathed a sigh of relief through his nose. “I think he’s one of us.”

She suddenly turned him around and shoved him deeper into the dark alley. He stumbled and fell, unable to see what was in front of him, and before he could climb back to his feet, someone held their hand out for him to take. Cautiously, he accepted it and stood up, meeting a pair of shocking blue eyes. The intensity of their stare made him feel inferior, and he quickly dropped his gaze. 

“Why were you following her?” the man in front of him demanded. 

Clancy cringed slightly and shifted his weight, his fingers brushing over the pen in his shirt pocket. “I had a question,” he muttered. 

“That’s it?” he said in confusion, and Clancy cringed again. Now that he thought about it, that  _ was  _ a rather silly reason to chase someone.

“I just wanted to know what color that was.” He pointed a shaking finger at the strip in the girl’s pocket, and then returned his hands to their familiar place just below his chest. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

“What color?” the other man demanded. 

Clancy glanced at the pocket again, but the color was carefully hidden away. He shifted nervously and then remembered that he’d put the petal in his pocket before he’d left for his assignments earlier that day. He quickly slipped it out, flinching as they tensed up. “This color.”

Their eyes widened in disbelief. “Where did you get that?” the girl demanded. 

“I found it,” he said vaguely, their sudden interest making him uncomfortable. 

“You know what they’ll do to you if they find this, right?” the man said. 

“Why? What is it?” He tucked it away again, his hands shaking. The last thing he needed was the Bishops’ attention.

“It’s yellow,” the girl whispered, as if saying the name alone would summon the Bishops. “It makes them uncomfortable. We don’t know why, but they hate it.”

“Yellow,” he repeated. The unfamiliar word tasted like sparks on his tongue.

“Yeah. That’s what it’s called. That’s what this is.” The girl pulled the strip of yellow out of her pocket and showed him. “It’s the color of hope.”

“So you’re planning to escape, too?” Clancy asked softly, almost afraid of the answer. What if they denied it, and turned him in for mentioning it? What if they confirmed his guess, but wouldn’t let him come with them?

Instantly, her eyes lit up with excitement and burned away the worry in his heart. “Yes,” the girl said. “Yes, we are. Do you want to come with us?”

A wide smile spread across his face. Finally, he wasn’t alone. Finally, someone else understood. He didn’t have to fight through this in solitude.

“I would like that,” he said softly.

The girl grinned back at him, though she seemed more relieved that he wasn’t going to turn them in. He didn’t mind. He was just happy that he’d found someone.

Happy. He hadn’t felt happy in a long time. It was a beautiful, bright feeling in his heart that spread through his entire body, pushing out all of the dark feelings for just a moment. He wished he could feel like this forever.

“Bird’s not gonna be pleased,” the man muttered, and Clancy’s good feeling vanished. 

“Bird?” he said in confusion.

“We gave ourselves nicknames,” the girl clarified. “In case any of us get caught, the others’ identities will be safe.”

“Is that allowed?” he asked nervously.

“Of course not,” the man said. “The first thing you need to know is that nothing we do together is allowed. Besides,” he continued with a shrug, “if the Bishops can do it, why can’t we?”

Who did these people think they were? Comparing themselves to the Bishops was blasphemy. He shivered, but tried to ignore the deep sense of dread suddenly rooting itself in his stomach. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“We’ll call him Mouse,” the man said, jabbing his thumb at him, and then turned to leave. “Come on. We’re already late. Worship will be over soon.”

“Mouse?” 

“Because you’re a coward.”

Clancy frowned, but didn’t respond. He had no idea who or what he was. He had no right to accuse him like that. He wondered if all of this was a bad idea after all. Maybe the stories were right, and these Banditos were dangerous.

“You can call me Cat, and that’s Dog,” the girl said. “And don’t mind his attitude. He’s been itching to get out of here for years.”

Cat. Dog. Bird. Mouse. These people really were quite odd. Anything  _ odd  _ was considered a violation of the Vialist Code of Conduct, and he debated backing out of their agreement as he followed them through the city, taking passages and shortcuts he hadn’t known existed. In the end, he decided to stay, because he doubted they would just let him go like that, now that he knew what they were planning. Even though he didn’t know their real names, he still knew dangerous information about both of them. 

As he followed them down the streets, he noticed that they looked and walked similarly, and they had a sort of affectionate attitude toward each other, and he wondered if they were siblings. He quickly dismissed the thought. If they were lucky, they knew who their parents were, but they rarely saw each other, and therefore never formed any sort of bond. Even if the two in front of him were real Banditos, they had to have been raised in the city to be here and want to escape now. They couldn’t be siblings.

“Hey. I’m talking to you.”

Clancy blinked as his thoughts scattered, and realized that the man had been trying to give him instructions while his mind was wandering. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Look, if you want to come with us, you have to follow everything we say. Understand?” The man’s piercing blue eyes seemed to stare right through his soul, and he shivered again.

“I understand,” he said.

“When we go in there, don’t talk until we say you can. Let us introduce you. Bird won’t be happy that we pulled another in on this. Not after last time.” He glared at the girl this time, and she glared back. 

Clancy nodded and stuffed his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking. He had known even thinking about escape was a serious subject, but nothing could have prepared him for how intense these two were. What was he getting himself into?

“And quit squinting at me,” he growled, and Clancy’s cheeks flushed slightly as he muttered an apology.

Bird was waiting for them in what looked like some sort of old storage closet that had been emptied and expanded. It reminded him of his secret room with the typewriter, and he wondered nervously if they knew about that, too. He pulled out his pen for comfort and spun it on his finger a few times before the man glared at him. 

The lights were dim, and he could barely see, but then something sparked and glowed, and then grew and danced on a stick in the middle of the room. Clancy’s eyes widened as he watched it. It was a light, but he’d never seen anything like it before. He couldn’t get his eyes to focus on it as it moved, though he could usually focus on the neon tubes. And it was warm and yellow, and it both intrigued and frightened him.

“What is that?” he whispered in awe.

“I thought I told you to be quiet,” the man hissed. 

“It’s fire,” the girl said.

“That’s fire?” he asked with a frown. “But the Bishops said -”

“What were you thinking?” a second female voice demanded. Her words were sharp and afraid, and he flinched involuntarily. “You know how dangerous it is to bring someone else into this.”

“It was Cat’s idea,” the man said, pushing the blame on to his companion without a second thought. 

“He’s just as desperate as we are,” the other girl said, closing the door behind her. 

Clancy instantly felt trapped and claustrophobic, and his fingers rubbed the pen vigorously. But for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He wanted to know what these people were doing.

“So was Rat, and you all know what happened with him.” Bird stood up and rested her hands on her hips. “So if anything happens, we’re leaving him in a heartbeat.”

“I thought the Banditos were supposed to help each other,” the girl snapped.

“We aren’t Banditos, Cat,” she said, though her voice was suddenly saddened. “We don’t even know if they exist or not. They’re probably just stories told to scare the younger ones.”

“You aren’t Banditos?” Clancy asked softly.

“Of course not,” the man said impatiently. “They’re children’s stories.”

“How do we know you won’t bail on us at the first sign of trouble?” Bird demanded, staring right at him. 

Clancy thought desperately for a moment, but he couldn’t come up with a good answer. He tried not to squint as he attempted to hold her gaze, but her form shifted in and out of focus and distracted him. “You’ll just have to trust me,” he finally said.

“Why do you want to get out?”

He hardly knew the answer to that question, either. “I want to know what’s out there,” he said slowly. He rubbed the smooth body of the pen with his thumb and shifted his weight as he spoke, afraid that he wouldn’t give her the right answer. “There has to be something more to life than completing these mindless tasks everyday. And - and the Glorified - that entire ceremony is twisted and sadistic. The Bishops aren’t protecting us. They’re controlling us. They’re confining us. I don’t want to live like this anymore. I can’t be the man I want to be here in Dema.”

“Who do you want to be?” Bird asked softly.

All three of them had their eyes on him now, watching him intently. He must have said something that caught their attention. Even the man’s eyes weren’t threatening anymore. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, suddenly very uncomfortable. 

“Then you’ll find out soon,” she said, stepping forward and extending her hand. “Welcome aboard, friend.”

His heart jumped both in panic and excitement. Suddenly, all of his fantasies were coming to life. “Thank you.” He shook her hand firmly, and for the second time in years, he smiled wider than he’d ever thought was possible.


	13. Thirteen

Tyler blinked his eyes open with a soft groan of pain and found himself lying on his bed back at home. He had a massive headache, and the bright neon tubes only made it worse, so he squeezed his eyes shut again and rolled on to his side. 

His alarm clock went off, reminding him that it was time for breakfast. He stumbled blindly out of bed and fumbled to turn it off, though the ringing in his ears stayed for a few minutes afterward. He sat back down on his bed and rubbed his temples with his thumbs. He had had the strangest dream last night. He had been running and trying to find someone, but he didn’t know who. Then he’d been surrounded by vultures and someone had grabbed his neck and he’d passed out. He shivered and yawned, and then quickly dismissed the discomfort that had suddenly settled over him. It was just a dream. He was safe here. The Bishops would protect him like they always did.

He stretched his arms and cracked his back, then pulled his shirt off to change and get ready for the day. The tubes in the middle of the room were too bright, and he kept his eyes closed as he pulled his arms through the sleeves of his button-up. He pulled the top drawer open and dug through it for his medication, but the bottle was empty. 

"Perfect," he mumbled, digging his fingernails into his left temple. He would have to go to the nurse for a refill, and she would make him list all his symptoms and explain why he thought he needed them. He dreaded everything about the nurse's office, but he couldn't survive without his medication. 

It took him almost two whole minutes to button his shirt, and he didn't bother changing his pants. He staggered to the door, dizzy and nauseous, and then began his trek down the hall.

His Bishop would wonder why he wasn't at worship after breakfast. He hoped he would understand. After all, he was the one who told him to get the medication in the first place. He had thought that was odd, since his Bishop wasn’t the kind of man who cared about the small things in his inhabitants’ lives. Instead, he monitored them, like an experiment, and he paid particular attention to Tyler only because he had escaped so many times. Why had he done that? Dema was perfect. He had everything he needed here - food, shelter, consistency, and a purpose. Why would he want that to change? 

Thinking this hard irritated his migraine, and he squeezed his eyes shut and used the wall as a guide. He bumped into someone and muttered an apology without even looking to see who it was. It didn't matter, anyway. He didn't care what anyone thought about him. He just needed his medicine. 

He staggered into the nurse's office and collapsed on a chair, digging his knuckles into his eyes. The nurse asked him the usual questions, and he answered them absentmindedly. Finally, she handed him a pill bottle and he opened it desperately, pouring two pills into his hand and swallowing them dry. Now he just had to survive breakfast, and then the medicine would kick in and he would be okay. He stood up to leave, but the nurse pushed him back down onto the chair. 

“Wait here,” she ordered. “Your Bishop wants to see you.”

A cold, heavy dread settled in his stomach, though he wasn’t sure why. The Bishops were there to help them. “Okay,” he said.

His knee bounced violently as he waited, his hands folded in his lap. Why was he nervous? Nothing was wrong. Maybe he just wanted to make sure he was alright. But why would he waste time visiting Tyler when the Assemblage was in nine days?

He looked up as the door opened and the cloaked Bishop entered. “Hello, Tyler,” he said, his voice quiet and raspy. “How are you feeling?”

Tyler swallowed nervously. “Y-yeah.” He blinked and shook his head vigorously. “I mean - better. I’m feeling better.”

“Glad to hear it.” The Bishop stood in front of him, his hands clasped in the folds of his robes. As usual, his expression was hidden by the veil. “Do you know why I’m here?”

Tyler shook his head again and dropped his eyes to the floor, shifting his weight on his chair. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Why was he so nervous?

“I apologize about last night,” his Bishop said. “The smearing was more forceful than usual. How is your migraine?”

He shrugged and rubbed his forehead. “Still awful. But I just took my pill for it.” He paused and thought for a minute, and then frowned in confusion. “Wait, last night was real? The Watchers and the running and the smearing?”

“Yes. You had another episode.”

His eyes widened. “Oh no. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s quite alright, child. You are here now, and you are safe. Do you believe that?”

“Yes,” he whispered. 

“Good,” his Bishop said. “However, I believe it is time to discuss your recurring episodes. Have you been attending every worship and ceremony?”

“I…” Tyler swallowed hard. “I think so. Unless I was already having an episode.”

“You haven’t missed one for any other reason? You haven’t slept in, had a migraine, or forgotten?”

Tyler fidgeted with his fingers as he stared at the floor. He racked his brain for an answer, wondering what he could tell him. “I have missed a few because of my migraines,” he said slowly.

The Bishop made a soft humming sound as he thought. Though his eyes were hidden, Tyler could still feel their piercing, soulless stare. Finally, he turned to the nurse. “Give him something to prevent migraines. This is unacceptable.” He looked at Tyler again. “You will be at worship in the center church at exactly eight hundred hours. There will be a reserved seat on the front row for you. Do not be late.” And with that, he swept out of the room and out of sight.

Tyler walked back to his room feeling more anxious than he had before. His migraine was nearly gone, but a new headache replaced it, and he couldn’t stop rubbing his neck. He had been smeared again. How many times had that been? Seven? Eight? He knew the effects of repeated smearings wouldn’t be pleasant, and if he didn’t already have them, it wasn’t long before they hit. 

He looked at the pill bottle in his hand and sighed softly before stuffing it in his pocket. No one could know he was on medication. Then he would stand out more than he already did, and that was the last thing he wanted. He just wanted to blend in like everyone else. He wanted to make his Bishop proud.

The nurse hadn’t explained what the medication actually did. She had just told him that it would help his migraines so that he could attend all of the worships. He knew it was some sort of drug, but at this point, he didn’t care. He was tired of disappointing his Bishop because of something he couldn’t control.

Worship would begin in ten minutes. He quickly changed into his black pants and splashed his face with cold water, and then swallowed his new pill and started toward the center church.

As he walked, all the pain in his body completely faded. He hardly noticed, because he suddenly felt happier than he had in a long time. Something in the back of his mind told him that this wasn’t really happiness. The pill he’d taken was numbing his senses. He ignored that thought and approached the doors to the church. 

He walked down the stairs, nearly tripping on the rough concrete, and quietly entered the chapel. There were dozens of other inhabitants there, but just as his Bishop had promised, there was a reserved seat for him on the front row. He walked down the aisle with his eyes glued to the floor, and silently sat down, crossing his legs and folding his hands neatly in his lap. The Bishop hadn’t entered yet, but Tyler already dreaded his presence. He didn’t want to disappoint him again. 

The bright neon in front of him stared lifelessly at those in the church, and for a moment, Tyler thought that it was infusing its cold light into each of the citizens. He shuddered at that thought, and kept his eyes down. His mind felt fuzzy, and he couldn’t think clearly.

Then the Bishop entered solemnly, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe. He stopped in front of the aisle, directly behind the pillars of neon. His eyes surveyed the scene before him, resting on each citizen before moving on. Tyler thought his gaze lingered when it reached him. 

“Let us begin,” the Bishop finally said.


	14. Føurteen

_ Whatever you do, don’t go to worship.  _

Clancy sat on his bed, his knee bouncing nervously. They were going to catch him. He knew it. He’d pulled the curtains shut, so that the only light was the cold neon tubes in the middle of his room, but he was sure someone would still see him. What would the Bishops do if they found him? How would they punish him?

His stomach grumbled softly and he flinched at the sound. He had been too nervous to eat breakfast this morning. He tried to ignore the mild discomfort, and distracted himself by thinking about the three strange people he’d met last night.  _ Friends.  _ They were his friends, or at least he thought they were. 

He shook his head violently. No, they couldn’t be his friends. He had never had friends before. He had spent nearly a decade in this place and he had never had friends. Why would that suddenly change now, after all that he’d done? He was a horrible influence, and he was a burden to carry around. They were going to ditch him at the first sign of trouble. Bird had said so herself. 

A cloudy darkness settled in his chest like fog, and he laid back on his bed and stared at the ceiling, his hands folded on his stomach. He had thought that he would be excited for the opportunity to escape, but that proved to be just another fantasy. Was the world outside Dema just a fantasy as well? What if all of this was for nothing?

He almost laughed at himself.  _ All of this.  _ He hadn’t done anything. The meeting last night was the only thing that had happened. This was ridiculous. Nothing good could possibly come out of this little escape plan they were putting together. They hadn’t even let him come to their second meeting. They were planning the whole thing as he thought, and then they would fill him in on the way. They didn’t trust him. And though he didn't blame them, it still hurt. 

He hadn't felt  _ hurt  _ in a long time. He had lived in this comfortable numbness for as long as he could remember, and suddenly in these past two weeks, he had felt hoards of confusing emotions, most of which he wasn't sure he'd ever felt before. They left a burning pressure in his chest, and he didn't like it. He didn't want to feel if it meant he would hurt all of the time.

He rolled onto his side and stared at the window, picking at the seam of his scratchy sheets. The pen in his shirt pocket poked his chest no matter how he rested, so he pulled it out and turned it over in his hand. Perhaps he should write again. Maybe that would help him sort out his emotions. He started to sit up, but then slumped down again. He couldn’t leave his apartment now, not when the Assemblage was in nine days. There was nothing he could do at this point. His hands were tied, and he was trapped here until someone told him exactly what to do. 

The Assemblage was in nine days, which meant the Week of Silence was in two. Seven days with no sound but his own breathing and shuffled footsteps. That was the worst week of the entire year, and he could hardly stand it. This year, he knew it would be far worse, because this time, he would be plagued with whirling thoughts of escape and the world beyond Dema. He didn’t think he could survive it alone. 

Suddenly, his window slid open, and someone tumbled in, nearly tearing the curtains down. Clancy scrambled to his feet with a shriek, tripping over his own feet and falling back onto his bed. “What the -”

“Shh!” Cat hissed, pulling the curtains closed again. “You don’t want to get caught, do you?”

“Vultures, you scared the living daylights out of me!” Clancy whispered furiously, slowly climbing back to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

“Relaying a message from Bird.” Cat dusted her hands on her pants and straightened up, looking right at him. “She wants you to meet her in the circle after worship. Come alone. Don’t bring anything.”

“Why does she want me?” Clancy asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I thought you didn’t want me around. The only reason you let me in on your secret was so that I wouldn’t turn you in.”

Cat sighed. “Look, I’m sorry about last night. We’re just...we’re worried. The last time we brought someone else into our plan, he nearly got us all killed. But Bird genuinely likes you. She sees something in you that Dog doesn’t.”

Clancy ran his hand through his hair anxiously, letting out a breath through pursed lips. “Alright. What does she want?”

“She’s going to fill you in and lay out some precautions. Sorry you couldn’t come to the main meeting. It’s too risky to meet in groups.”

He just nodded. That made sense, and he tried not to be angry at them anymore, though it was hard. 

“Great. I have to go before someone catches me. Remember, don’t go to worships, no matter what.” Cat put her foot on the window sill and started to pull herself up. 

“May I ask a question?” Clancy said softly. 

She paused, and turned to look at him over his shoulder. “Sure.”

“Have you ever been out there?”

The room fell silent. “No,” she finally said. “No, I haven’t.”

“I’m afraid we won’t make it,” he said honestly, shifting his weight and squinting down at the floor.

“We’ll make it,” she insisted. 

He didn’t share her certainty, but he nodded anyway. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you later, then,” Cat said. “Good luck.”

She was gone before he could even thank her. 

As soon as the bell tolled, signifying the end of worship, Clancy stuffed his pen in his pocket and rushed out of his apartment. His legs barely supported him, and he stumbled, but kept his hand on the wall for balance. His vision was fuzzier than usual, blurred from the adrenaline coursing through his body, and no amount of squinting made any difference. 

He forced himself to walk down the stairs instead of jump, and headed out into the street as naturally as he could. Eventually, he had to take the pen from his pocket and fiddle with it as he walked, hoping to calm his nerves before something gave him away. His stomach twisted nervously with every step he took, and every breath he took grew shorter. 

When he turned into the circle, his eyes scanned the thinning crowd, looking for Bird. He found her standing by the statue in front of the entrance to the Fifth sector, and they locked eyes for a moment before he started toward her. He only took two steps before she quickly turned away and started to walk toward someone else, as if she noticed something. He frowned in confusion and gripped his pen tightly, and then he felt a heavy hand rest on his shoulder. 

He spun around in panic, only to see his Bishop staring right at him. His heart nearly stopped, and he fumbled to put his pen back in his pocket, but instead, he dropped it on the ground. He stuttered out an apology and started to bow respectively, like the others around him, but the Bishop held his hand up to stop him. 

“There is no need for that,” he said, his voice gentle and frail. “What are you so worried about?”

“Nothing,” Clancy said quickly. 

The Bishop studied him for a long moment, his eyes unreadable behind his veil. At last, he turned away. “Walk with me.”

Clancy blinked in surprise, an ice cold dread settling in his stomach. He risked a glance at Bird and bent over to retrieve his pen, his hands shaking.

“Leave it,” the Bishop said without looking at him. 

Instantly, he froze, and then swallowed hard and straightened up. Again, he glanced at Bird over his shoulder as he followed the Bishop. Her face was pale, and her eyes were wide with fear. 

They walked in silence for a few moments before Keons finally spoke. “You weren’t at worship.”

Clancy bit his lip and shivered slightly. “I - I had a headache,” he mumbled.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” he said. “You’ve had quite a few headaches in the past few weeks, haven’t you?”

The guilt ate at his stomach, but he nodded anyway. He knew the Bishop could see right through his lie. 

“Do you know the cause?”

“No, sir,” he said softly.

Keons hummed softly in acknowledgement. “I believe I have the answer.”

Clancy swallowed hard and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He fully expected the Bishop to call him out on his lie, but instead, he surprised him. 

“I have noticed that you squint your eyes during every lecture and assignment,” the Bishop said. “Why is that?”

“Oh.” His face flushed slightly in embarrassment, and he rubbed his nose absentmindedly. “Um...it’s because I can’t...I can’t see very well. At least - at least not things that are small and far away. So I squint because it - it brings the words on the board into focus.”

“Interesting.” 

The Bishop led him to his usual assignment hall in the Third sector and to the nurse’s office. Everyone froze in their tracks and bowed to the Bishop as they passed, and Clancy felt very exposed following him. All eyes were on him, and he shuddered beneath their glare. 

Keons opened the door to the nurse’s office and walked right passed her without a word, and Clancy ducked his head and followed suit, hunching his shoulders and biting his lip. He hated the attention his Bishop gave him. Attention was for the Glorified, not for a common man like himself. 

“This way,” the Bishop said, opening a second door in the back of the room. 

Clancy forced himself to enter without hesitation, half expecting some sort of punishment, but instead, he only saw shelves of boxes. “What are these for?” he asked softly.

Keons shut the door behind them, and clasped his hands in his robe. “Read them for me.”

Clancy nodded, trying desperately to hide his shaking hands. He squinted slightly at the first box, and as usual, the slightly blurred letters shifted into focus. “Gauze,” he read, his eyes flickering to the next one. “Sleep medication. Wraps. Glasses.”

“That one,” Keons said, nodding.

“Glasses,” Clancy repeated in something like disbelief. He didn’t need glasses. He didn’t want glasses. They would only bring more attention to himself, and that was the last thing he wanted. 

“Yes.” Keons watched him with an unreadable expression. “Bring it to me.”

The box was lighter than he had expected, and he nearly dropped it when he used too much force to pick it up. He thought he heard Keons chuckle under his breath, and his pale cheeks flushed slightly again as he handed it to him. The Bishop opened the box and looked through it with one hand, and then he nodded in satisfaction and pulled out a pair of glasses with thin, round lenses. He set the box on the ground and straightened up with the glasses in hand. 

“These will do,” he said, turning them toward him. Clancy raised his hand to take them from him, but Keons reached forward, sliding them onto his face for him. 

Clancy leaned back, squeezing his eyes shut and scrunching his nose, and only found the courage to open them again when the Bishop’s hands left his face. For a moment, he was caught completely off guard. He blinked over and over, hardly able to believe what he was seeing. He rubbed his eyes underneath the lenses, but sure enough, it was real. 

He could see  _ details _ \- details he had never thought existed. He could see each fold in the Bishop’s robe, and each line on his face, even through the veil. He held his hands in front of his face in fascination, noticing each little wrinkle in his skin, suddenly able to see without the slight blur in his eyes. A bright smile spread across his face. “Wow,” he whispered. 

“How do they feel?” the Bishop asked.

“They’re amazing. I -” He turned to look around the room in awe, and then smiled at the Bishop again. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he said softly. “This should help your headaches.” 

He turned and opened the door again, leading him back out into the nurse’s office. Clancy took in everything with new fascination. He could read the paper on the nurse’s desk without squinting, and suddenly everything was crisper and clearer. He almost couldn’t believe it, and he could barely contain his excitement. 

“I expect to see you at Worship tomorrow morning.”

Clancy’s enthusiasm vanished in a split-second. “Of - of course.”

“Good.” And with that, he was gone.


	15. Fifteen

The ceiling had more texture than he’d expected. For some reason, that was what his focus continued to return to as he laid there on his back, staring at the ceiling of his apartment through his new glasses.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. If he went to Worship, like his Bishop had ordered, the others might think he had bailed on them or couldn’t follow instructions. But if he didn’t go to Worship, his Bishop would be suspicious, and he could get in serious trouble. He was stuck in the middle, and no matter what he decided to do, there would be unfortunate consequences. 

This was much more difficult than he had imagined. 

The sky was dark, and the neon in the middle of his room glowed brighter than ever. The cold light cast dramatic shadows across the room, looming over his bed and crawling up the walls. Clancy tried to ignore it, but it called his attention over and over, and eventually, he had to turn onto his side to face the wall.

Bird must have known something about the Worship that he didn’t. He thought back to his latest journal entry about the neon, and he furrowed his brow and squinted slightly out of habit. The Bishops had effectively brainwashed most if not all of the citizens. That became more obvious the longer he stayed here. He watched those he had grown up with diminish, their personality fading into nothing and leaving an empty shell of a person behind, and he had seen it happen again and again. Perhaps the Bishops brainwashed them at Worships. Clancy hadn’t been to a Worship in nearly a week, and Cat had reminded him twice that he wasn’t to attend, no matter what. That was the only logical explanation.

He didn't sleep that night. There was a morning Worship and an evening Worship the next day in preparation for the Week of Silence, and he had no idea what he was supposed to do. 

When the bell tolled that morning, he stumbled out of bed and to the bathroom, pushing his glasses up his nose and running his fingers through his messy hair. He looked awful, but he couldn’t bring himself to make himself presentable. He brushed his teeth and ran his hand over his jaw, but there wasn’t anything to shave. He felt oddly disappointed by that fact, mostly because shaving would have given him one more thing to do before he was forced to leave his apartment for the morning Worship. 

He pulled his t-shirt over his head, fumbling to keep his glasses from falling off his face, and put on his standard grey button-up. He started to change his pants before realizing that he hadn’t changed out of them the night before, so he shrugged and rebuttoned them, his mind too frantic to care.

The hall was already filled, and he slipped easily into the crowd. Suddenly, people looked at him - brief glances that lasted hardly a second, but they were there just the same. Those who recognized him had noticed the glasses, and he shivered under their gaze. Once more, he stood out in the crowd for reasons beyond his control, and he hated every second of it. 

The church was a cold, black building close to the center of the city, and though it was hardly overlooked, the nine towers behind it took most of the citizens’ attention. They loomed over the city, casting long, dark shadows at every time of the day. Clancy had almost forgotten how much he hated going near them. 

Hate. He had felt so much hatred recently, though he had never felt it before. He really was waking up. What if he was right and the Worships really did brainwash them? Would his attendance today erase all that he had discovered? And so he hesitated in the doorway, until someone bumped into him from behind and sent him stumbling across the threshold. 

He quickly found a seat in the back of the chapel, on the edge closest to the wall. The entire church was silent except for the soft shuffling of feet as the last of the citizens entered, and he squirmed in his seat. He wished he had his pen to hold, but though he had run back to the square where he’d dropped it, it was nowhere to be found. He figured one of Keons’ advisors had taken it, and though he knew that was probably for the better, he still felt empty and lonely without it. 

A few tense minutes passed, and then the door at the front of the chapel opened, and everyone rose from their seats as the Bishop and his two Deacons entered. Clancy thought Keons’ veiled eyes met his for the slightest moment, but then the Bishop faced the nine neon tubes in the center of the room and Clancy shivered. 

What was he to do? He was trapped in the chapel now that Worship had started, and he hadn’t figured out what part of Worship actually harmed him. When he sat down with the rest of the congregation, he squeezed his eyes shut and curled in on himself, pressing his fingers against his ears. He knew that if Keons looked up, he would see him deliberately avoiding the Worship, but it was a risk he knew he had to take. 

After the longest hour of his life, everyone stood up again, and he stumbled to his feet, dropping his arms to his sides. He squeezed into the crowd and slipped through the doors as fast as he could, but even so, he felt the Bishop’s eyes on his back the entire time. His apartment felt a million miles away, and he grew more nervous the longer he walked. 

He was only a block away when someone grabbed his wrist and yanked him to a stop. He spun around, nearly twisting his wrist the wrong direction, and breathed a sigh of relief when he found that it was Bird and not his Bishop. 

“You were at Worship, weren’t you?” she said, her voice low.

He bit his lip and dropped his eyes to the ground. “Yes,” he mumbled. 

“After we told you twice to stay home? How are we supposed to trust you if you can’t follow simple instructions?”

His face flushed slightly and he fiddled with his hands, shifting his weight. “I - I’m sorry, but I had to be there. Bishop Keons said that I had to be there and that he’d look for me, and I thought - I thought -”

“Wait a minute, he said that specifically?” Bird frowned, and he nodded. 

“He - he gave me these glasses because I told him that I couldn’t see without squinting, and then he said that since he gave me the glasses, he expected to see me at Worship. I’ve already missed a week of Worships, and he started to notice.”

Bird cursed under her breath and Clancy’s eyes widened, but she ignored it. “If he’s watching you, this is going to be harder than we thought.”

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked softly.

“What were you planning on doing?” 

Clancy shifted his weight again and sighed. “I suppose I was planning on going to the Worships and keeping my eyes closed and my ears covered. I’m just - I’m afraid he might single me out. He’s already done it before.”

“I think that’s the best option right now,” Bird said, rubbing the back of her neck. “I want to meet the morning of the Assemblage, same place as last time. Until then, stay low.” He nodded and she started to turn, but then she paused and pulled something from her pocket. “Oh, and you dropped this.”

She held his pen out for him to take and he blinked in response, surprised that she had noticed it. “Thank you,” he said as he gently took it from her. 

“I’d watch that more carefully if I were you,” she said as she walked down the street, and before he could respond, she vanished into the crowd.


	16. Sixteen

Somehow, the Week of Silence wasn’t as bad as it usually was. Tyler decided that he suddenly felt calm now due to the pill he had taken for three days. Deep down, he knew something wasn’t quite right, but the thought was easy to dismiss. He felt calm and relaxed, and he hadn’t had a headache since. How could that be bad?

He headed down to his assignment for the day in pleasant numbness. Everything was perfect now, and he couldn’t imagine why he had wanted to leave in the first place. He had everything he needed - food, clothes, consistency, and a Bishop who cared about him. There was nothing out there that was better than this. 

The hallway was deserted, and though that should have been concerning, he shrugged the thought away and continued on as usual. He didn’t want to be late, and dwelling on something insignificant would certainly cause him to be tardy. Besides, there was nothing to worry about in Dema. The Bishops always had everything under control. 

He turned the corner and froze. A door stood open in the hallway - one that he’d never seen open before. In fact, he couldn’t recall ever seeing a door there in the first place. He needed to report that to the Bishops, and yet something in the back of his mind told him to go look inside. 

He shook his head violently and forced his eyes to leave the door. He couldn’t do that. That would only bring trouble to his peaceful life, and that was the last thing he wanted. But as he started to walk away, a nagging voice urged him to take a peek, only fueling his curiosity.  _ It’s just a little look,  _ he told himself.  _ It’s not like anyone will know.  _ Carefully, he reached forward and opened the door just a little further. 

Stairs. That was all that was behind the door, and he couldn’t help but feel disappointed. For a moment, he had thought that maybe he’d discovered something special, something exciting. He shook his head again, harder this time. He didn’t need excitement. Excitement was poisonous. After all, that was what the Bishops always said. It made the heart race, and that kind of feeling was reserved only for respect, though the longer Tyler thought about it, the more he began to wonder if that feeling was actually fear instead. He certainly feared the Bishops. 

All this thinking made his head hurt, and he started to turn away, but something in his chest urged him upward, and before he knew it, he was climbing the stairs, his heart racing with fear. He stepped into a small room with nothing but a desk and a chair, and his eyes immediately locked onto the typewriter on the table. That was odd. Typewriters belonged in classrooms and offices, not in strange abandoned rooms. 

“I shouldn’t be in here,” he muttered, and then his eyes widened and he slammed his hand over his mouth. He had just spoken during the Week of Silence, the most sacred week of the entire year. Surely the Bishops had heard it. What was this room doing to him? 

He turned to run down the stairs, but his eyes landed on a satchel sitting in the corner of the room. His body moved against his will, forcing him to kneel down and open the bag. A crumpled piece of paper sat on top, and he picked it up and skimmed through the note, and suddenly his breath hitched in his throat.

_ Am I the only one who realizes that we’ve been lied to? Am I the only one not afraid of the notion that the nine have hijacked our trust, and extinguished the hope that once motivated our existence?  _

Whatever he had expected, this was much, much worse. Suddenly, he was in possession of outright blasphemy. What would they do if they caught him with this? He would be punished severely; that much was certain. His panic eased slightly as he noticed the signature at the bottom. At least now they would know that the writing belonged to someone else.

He jumped to his feet as an idea suddenly hit him. He had to report this to the Bishops - all of it. If he had found this room, nothing would stop someone else from doing the same, and that could cause absolute chaos.

Excitement.

He flew down the stairs two at a time, the paper crumpled tight in his fist. He threw the door shut behind him and he raced through the streets of Dema, heading to his Bishop’s office in the church. His Bishop would surely be grateful that he had reported it, but even so, he couldn’t keep the fear and doubt from creeping into his chest. 

His knuckle cracked as he knocked on the door, so he sucked on it to stop the bleeding, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Why was he nervous? He had no reason to be. He was only doing his duty as a loyal citizen of Dema.

The door opened slowly, and Tyler swallowed hard as he was met with the shrouded eyes of his Bishop. The robed figure stared at him without saying a word, and Tyler suddenly realized that he had never approached a Bishop during the Week of Silence, and he had no idea what to do. Slowly, he held the paper out toward him, his hand trembling. 

The Bishop watched him for a moment, and then took the page and unfolded it. Instantly, his brow furrowed and he hunched over slightly. Tyler shifted again, rubbing his wrists in an attempt to calm his nerves, and waited for a response. 

“Thank you for telling me,” the Bishop finally said, his voice raspy and soft. “You are dismissed.”


	17. Seventeen

The crisp clicks of the typewriters irritated him more with every minute that passed. He could barely focus on his task, and his fingers refused to respond to his mind. He knew he was falling behind his quota, and though he knew that would bring more unwanted attention, he couldn’t help it. After all, transcribing the same histories over and over wasn’t the most interesting thing on his mind. 

And the Silence was driving him insane.

The door opened and he fought to keep his head down, but then a hand rested on his desk, leaving a slip of paper behind as the man moved on. Clancy picked it up, his hands trembling, and then his heart dropped to his stomach.

_ Bishop Keons wants to see you in his office immediately.  _

Clancy swallowed hard and stood up, gripping his pen tightly. Nothing good could come out of this, not when the Assemblage and their escape were so close.

One of Keons’ advisors met him at the door and led him down the hall and out into the streets. Everything was fuzzier than usual, even with his glasses, and a headache surfaced behind his eyes the longer he walked. At last, they reached the small office in the church and Clancy swallowed hard. Before he even had a chance to compose himself, the advisor opened the door and gestured for him to enter.

Keons didn’t look up from his desk, even when the advisor shut the door again. Clancy shifted his weight uncomfortably, fighting desperately to keep his hands at his sides. He wanted to believe that he hadn’t done anything wrong, but that was entirely untrue. 

“You are permitted to speak until I say otherwise.”

Clancy just nodded. He had no other response, and he was afraid that speaking during the Week of Silence would get him in serious trouble, even though the Bishop had given him permission. 

Finally, Keons raised his head and looked right at him, holding a piece of paper out for him to see. “What is this?” he demanded.

Clancy’s breath hitched in his throat as he recognized the signature at the bottom. How had he found that? He had kept it hidden under his mattress in his apartment. Even though the Bishop watched him with anger in his shrouded eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to answer. Nothing he could say would defend his actions.

“I will not ask again.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I just didn’t know how to process my thoughts.”

“How often do you do this?”

A lump formed in his throat and he struggled to swallow. “I don’t know.”

“You are twenty years old, Clancy. You should know better than this.”

Keons’ voice was soaked with disappointment, and a sick guilt settled in his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes glued to the ground. His entire body felt heavy. 

“An apology is hardly sufficient. This is outright and deliberate blasphemy.” Keons folded his hands in his robe, watching him with cold, hard eyes. “Do you understand what the punishment for this is?”

“No, sir,” he whispered. 

“A public smearing and imprisonment in the towers, Clancy. Are you prepared for that?”

Clancy’s entire body trembled, and his stomach twisted until he was sure he was going to throw up. He couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth.

“It’s difficult to take in, isn’t it?” Keons stood up and approached him slowly. Clancy tried not to lean away from him. “It is difficult for me, as well. You were doing so well, even with your episodes. Frankly, I’m quite disappointed in you. I know you think I can’t see you during Worship, but I can. I know what you are doing. You are deliberately fighting divine help.”

“But I -” he blurted, but Keons held up his hand and he instantly went quiet. 

“I don’t believe this punishment is necessary, however.”

Clancy blinked in surprise. “You - you don’t?”

“How could I? This is your first offence, and after all, something is wrong with your brain. You cannot help being a failure.”

The Bishop’s statement felt like a slap to the face. He certainly felt like a failure, but hearing it from his Bishop made it sound much worse. “Oh,” he whispered, and then cleared his throat slightly. “Can - can we fix it?”

“Your brain? No. But we can train it to obey.”

_ Like an animal.  _

“I don’t understand.”

“From now until the Assemblage, you are excused from your assignments. You will meet me here every morning instead.” The Bishop turned his back to the room and sighed as he opened a drawer in his desk. Clancy didn’t dare move, even as he pulled out a small knife. “You are right-handed, correct?”

Clancy swallowed hard and nodded. 

Keons handed him the knife, resting it in his left hand. “Mark yourself, Clancy. Spill your dirty blood, and it will cleanse your consciousness.”

Clancy’s eyes widened as he stared at the knife in his hand. “I - I’m not sure -”

“An X across your palm will be sufficient, deep enough to bleed. Do you trust me?”

He didn’t know the answer to that question. His mind spun in a hurricane of panic. “I want to,” he said, and he wasn’t sure if he was lying or not.

Keons gestured to the knife. “Then obey, and in time, you will learn.”

What other options did he have? He was cornered with nowhere to run. He bit his lip and rested the knife point against the palm of his right hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Father, I can’t -”

“Clancy,” he said sternly, and Clancy squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the point into his skin.

Instantly, a sharp pain burst through his hand and he yelped, dropping the knife on the floor. He caught the Bishop’s disapproving look and quickly retrieved it, gritting his teeth as he forced himself to obey. Tears welled up in his eyes as he dug the blade into his palm, slicing a line across his skin, and no matter how hard he fought, he couldn’t ignore the pain. 

“Good,” Keons said. “You are halfway there. You are almost done.”

The second line was jagged and uneven, and it set his whole hand on fire. He gasped in pain and bit his lip, going rigid as the two lines intersected in the middle. The warm sticky blood collected in the middle of his palm and trickled between his fingers, dripping onto the floor and gleaming bright against his pale skin. It screamed his sins to the Bishop; dirty sins he’d never spoken aloud. His blood told him just how long he had questioned Vialism. 

“Very good.” Keons nodded in approval and took the knife from him. “Let me see.” He took Clancy’s bleeding hand in his and gently pulled his fingers from his protective fist, studying the lines in his skin. “Perfect. Go wash up, Clancy. We will meet here again tomorrow morning, and soon, you will be as good as new.”

Clancy nodded, quickly wiping a few stray tears from his face. His hand stung like a thousand paper cuts as the Bishop examined it, but he tried not to pull away. 

Keons returned the knife to the drawer, and then turned slightly. “Oh, and one more thing.” Clancy kept his eyes down, and the Bishop paused for a moment before he continued. “Look at me.”

Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet his Bishop’s piercing gaze and held his hand tightly against his chest. 

“Give me the pen.”

He blinked in surprise. “The - the pen?”

“In your pocket, Clancy. Give it to me.”

Not his pen. That was the only thing that kept him grounded in his confusion. But even so, he was afraid of angering him, and he couldn’t jeopardize their escape. Slowly, he took his beloved pen from his shirt pocket, running his fingers over the smooth plastic one last time, and handed it to the Bishop.

“You are not to write any more letters, do you understand?” Keons ordered, his charcoal black fist curling around his pen. 

Clancy nodded and dropped his eyes back to the floor, his chest aching. 

“Good. You are a good man, Clancy. I would hate to have these fantasies destroy your nature. You are dismissed.”

He ran to his secret room as fast as he could, his bleeding hand pressed up against his chest. There was blood all over his shirt now, but he didn’t care. He had to make sure everything was still there. The door was open a crack, and he paused to catch his breath before climbing up the dim stairs and into the familiar room. 

Nothing was out of place, although the satchel with the camera was open, and his last letter was missing. Everything else was exactly how he had left it. He breathed a sigh of relief and ran his left hand through his hair. The Bishops hadn’t found his room yet, though he knew it was only a matter of time before they did. 

An idea struck him suddenly, and he immediately scrambled to pack everything up. If they found out that he had been here, the entire escape plan would be ruined. He folded the few remaining pieces of paper and put them in the satchel, along with the photograph and the petal he had left on the desk. He wanted to take the typewriter, but he doubted he’d be able to get it to his apartment unnoticed. The satchel would be hard enough. But when he started down the stairs, there was a deep ache in his chest, as if he had left a part of him behind, so he returned and picked it up. 

Though it wasn’t heavy, his arms began to ache as he crept down the stairs again, poking his head out into the hallway. There was no way he would make it back to his apartment without someone noticing. He looked down at the typewriter in his arms, and then an absurd idea came to mind. He put it down and untucked his shirt, and then stuffed the typewriter underneath it, covering it with the grey fabric as best he could. It left a massive awkward bump and it was cold against his bare skin, but he put his arms around it and slowly stepped into the hallway. 

He walked as fast as he dared, feeling absolutely ridiculous, and though no one was out to see him, his face was bright red in embarrassment when he finally reached his apartment. He ran up the stairs and into his room, and then froze. 

The entire room was torn apart. 

He blinked over and over, hoping desperately that it was some bizarre dream, but nothing changed. His chair remained overturned, the scratchy sheets on his bed remained crumpled on the ground, and even the desk drawers remained open. 

The studio apartments didn't have locks, but they had never needed them. Clancy had never heard of anyone doing something like this. Who had broken into his apartment, and what had they been looking for? 

And then it hit him so suddenly that he staggered and nearly dropped the typewriter. Whoever had broken in had taken his letter and given it to his Bishop on purpose. But who would do that to him? He had never done anything to anger anyone. 

He sighed and shuffled into his flat, dropping the typewriter on his desk and slumping over on his bed. This was a disaster. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to Bird again, and he was in desperate need of answers.

A sharp pain bit through his hand as he leaned back, and he hissed softly in pain. He didn’t understand why Keons had made him  _ mark himself,  _ as he had put it, but it had made him realize something that he hadn’t let himself think about in a long time. Since he had never met his biological parents, he had always thought of Keons as the odd sort of father figure in his life, but now, he had to stop and reconsider. Did his Bishop really have good intentions, or was this more than a simple chastisement? Of course punishments had to be in place, and he had known that he would eventually be reprimanded, but though his punishment was much milder compared to the official code, he couldn’t help but feel that there was something behind Keons’ actions. 

He went into the bathroom and ran his hand under the faucet, cringing as the cold water stung the open wounds. Bishops didn’t pay attention to individual citizens, and yet Keons had specifically sought him out on multiple occasions. He wanted to ask why he continued to pay attention to him, but he was afraid of the answer. He would just have to wait it out, and that was the last thing he wanted. 

Each citizen was supplied with a very basic first aid kit with disinfectant and small bandages, but that wouldn’t be enough to take care of his hand. Though the cuts weren’t deep, they were long, and the adhesives wouldn’t cover it completely, and they would bend and wrinkle if he used his hand. He knew he needed to go to the nurse’s office, but he didn’t want to try and explain what had happened, especially during the Week of Silence. Eventually, he decided that toilet paper was the only logical option he had, so he washed his hand with the disinfectant and wrapped it in a thick glove of paper. The blood soaked through almost instantly, and he spent a good part of the rest of the day replacing the makeshift bandage. 

He didn’t sleep that night, though that was no longer a surprise. When the sun rose and the bell tolled, he followed the other citizens to breakfast in silence, but he couldn’t bring himself to eat. His stomach twisted with anxiety as he stared at his tray and anticipated the upcoming meeting with his Bishop. He had a feeling that their escape plan might not be as smooth as they had hoped.

When the bell rang, he found himself alone in the streets of Dema, walking slowly toward the church in the Third Sector. He stared up at the grey sky and watched a few vultures circle the city, seeming so small and carefree all the way up there. They were the only creatures who could come and go as they pleased, and he longed to be like that. The Watchers were different. Though they were the same creature, they had a different energy. They stayed in Dema and picked the citizens apart with their beady eyes. The vultures were natural creatures. There was nothing natural about the Watchers. 

An advisor was waiting for him when he arrived at Keons’ office. He pushed the door open and gestured for Clancy to enter, and then closed it behind him without another thought. Slowly, Clancy forced himself to look up at his Bishop, only for his heart to sink in dismay as he saw the knife in his outstretched hand. 

“Again,” the Bishop said softly.


	18. Eighteen

The closer the Assemblage came, the more nervous Tyler felt. Even with his new drug, he couldn’t get the letter he’d seen out of his mind. He thought about it every time he had a second of free time, and it scared him, especially since he found himself drifting back to his old ways.

He wanted to forget everything that he’d seen, but it was branded into his mind, haunting him every waking hour. His only comfort came from knowing that he had saved this poor writer’s soul. Whoever Clancy was, they were better off in their Bishop’s hands.

He hoped. 

Something lingered in the back of his mind, no matter how hard he tried to push it away. It was the notion that maybe there was a sliver of truth in the writing. He had always felt as though something was off. The Bishops didn’t tell them everything, and though that was expected, he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe they were keeping something important from the citizens. Had the writer Clancy figured it out? 

He shook his head violently, scattering the thoughts for a moment, and returned his attention to his dinner. He wasn’t hungry, but he forced himself to eat anyway. In just a few short hours, he would join the other citizens in the center of the city, just outside his Bishop’s tower, and he would witness another Assemblage. Would he find Clancy there? Another thought wiggled its way into his brain and made him tingle with discomfort. What if they had been Glorified? Though Tyler hoped that the writer would learn and allow themselves to be saved, the thought of their Glorification made Tyler’s stomach turn. He tried to convince himself that he would be happy for them if they became one of the Glorified, but for some reason, that kind of fate wasn’t something he’d wish upon anyone. 

_ It is an honor, not a punishment,  _ he insisted, his grip tightening on his fork. Suddenly, he wished he had never read the letter in the first place. 

He raised his head slightly and glanced around the cafeteria. Though he didn’t know what Clancy looked like, he wondered if he could find them. He quickly shook his head again, startling the person next to him. It was better if he didn’t know who they were. They had written a letter full of blasphemy, and Tyler wanted nothing to do with it. 

After dinner, he had an hour before he was to join the others and attend the Assemblage. He took his time walking back to his apartment, trying desperately to ignore the thoughts whirling in his head. One phrase repeated over and over.  _ The nine have hijacked our trust.  _

_ That’s not true,  _ he insisted, but strange memories surfaced, foggy and distant, but they were unmistakably his. He had always remembered being outside of the city, but suddenly he began to remember sounds and colors and feelings. And two voices. A male and a female. The man’s voice was soft but firm, smiling underneath, and the woman’s was bright and warm. It sparked something soft inside him. They were so familiar. Why couldn’t he remember them? His Bishop had told him that repeated smearings could cause memory loss, but for a moment, Tyler let himself think that maybe they were making him forget on purpose. 

Instantly, his hand curled around the pill bottle in his pocket and he started to open the lid. All this thinking was going to get him in serious trouble. But he remembered the woman’s voice, and a deep anger toward the Bishops bubbled in his chest. He loved her - or at least he thought he did. Why did they try to take that away from him? 

_ I have to get out of here.  _

The fear that accompanied the thought was strong enough to take his breath away. It grabbed his throat and stopped him in his tracks. He could almost hear his Bishop coming up behind him to smear him and make him forget for good. But the halls remained silent except for the shuffling of feet as the other citizens walked around him without a glance. 

He hurried to his flat and searched for a bag. There had been a breach from the outside two days ago, on the East side of Dema in Sector Six. Maybe he could find it - find them - and escape. He gathered up everything he could think to bring, but then paused. There was no way he’d be able to escape tonight. His Bishop would notice his absence before the Assemblage even started. Tomorrow. He would go tomorrow. And then he would finally find those two voices and remember who they were. His heart jumped in excitement.

Fear.

The Annual Assemblage of the Glorified was the biggest and holiest Vialist ceremony in the entire city. Every citizen from all nine sectors gathered in the center of Dema to witness the Glorification Ceremony and honor those who had met an early grave. Tyler had always despised the Assemblage, even before he had been plagued with thoughts of escape. Something about it had always felt wrong, and he always left feeling sick to his stomach. Perhaps it was because his Bishop promised that he would become one of the Glorified someday.

He followed the crowd as they took him to the center of the city, his chest tight with anxiety. Even thinking about the upcoming Ceremony set his nerves on edge. His heart screamed at him to turn and run, but he ignored the urge and forced himself forward. Once he reached church courtyard, he lingered around the back, hoping to settle there after everybody had arrived. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one with that idea, and by the time the crowd settled down and the Assemblage began, he was closer to the middle. Everyone knelt down, and he tried to ignore the pain in his knees and make himself as small as possible. After only a few minutes, the air became stuffy and sweat dripped down his back. He had a feeling this was going to be the longest Assemblage he had ever attended. 

The Bishops brought out unlit Vials and silently laid them out in front of them. Tyler knew what they were going to say, but he couldn’t bring himself to cover his ears. 

“Citizens,” Nills began. His voice was soft, but it traveled effortlessly through the crowds and sounded as if he was standing directly in front of each of them. “We come together today as the Nine Districts of Dema for the Annual Assemblage of the Glorified. We honor those who have so bravely taken their lives for us, and wish them peace and glory in the endless life to come. May we all strive to be like them someday.”

Tyler’s entire body tingled as the Bishop spoke. He wanted to stand up and scream, denying everything Vialism taught, but he stayed kneeling with his mouth shut. 

There was nothing he hated more than Vialism.  _ Live to die. Live to be Glorified.  _ Those who lived long lives were looked down upon. They were cowards. They were selfish for keeping their light to themselves. They should have given it to the city long ago. Tyler wanted to make them see that there was more to life than dying to serve a twisted religion, but no one would listen. No one but the writer Clancy.

Tyler looked away from the Bishops as they began the lighting ritual and let his eyes scan the crowds. There was always a slim chance that Clancy would look up, too. Maybe then they could talk after the Assemblage, and maybe they wouldn’t feel so alone. 

Something caught his eye on the opposite side of the crowd, nearly ninety degrees from the Bishops and their neon. A small, round object fell from a window. Tyler watched as it fell, seemingly in slow motion, and then it hit the ground with a bang and an enormous cloud of grey smoke obscured the crowd. 

The Assemblage stood completely still.


	19. Nineteen

_ They're asleep. The night took forever to arrive, and now we're almost ready. We've studied the watchers, and know that there's no chance that we can step through unnoticed. So, instead of trying to hide ourselves, we'll make sure that all of us are noticed. It's been one year since the last convocation, and tomorrow's Annual Assemblage of Glorified will be the biggest spectacle this concrete coffin of a city has seen all year. If we time it right, we'll divert the attention of the watchers and finally step through. We've had no contact, but we're hoping the other side will be able to find a way in. We're not sure of the breach location, but we are willing to risk being smeared in order to find it. We know that we must go lower, and wait for the torches. They've never seen anything quite like this, and by morning, everything will be different. I'm terrified and excited, all at the same time. They don't control us. _

_ \- Clancy _

_ wake up _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from dmaorg


	20. Twenty

Dog immediately whipped around. “What the hell was that for?” he hissed.

“It slipped out of my hand!” Clancy said defensively, blushing furiously and cursing his sweaty palms. 

“You just ruined our entire plan!”

“It was an accident!”

Bird signaled from across the square, but then Bishop Nico spoke, and Clancy froze completely in terror.

“Get them.”

The crowd erupted into chaos, shattering the silence with shouting and panic. The Bishops’ guards ran towards them, but no matter how hard Clancy tried, he couldn’t move. His body was stiff with fear. He wasn’t even shaking.

Dog’s fingers locked on his wrist and yanked him backward. “I should leave you to the Watchers,” he growled, breaking into a sprint and dragging Clancy behind him. 

“I’m sorry -” Clancy tripped over his own feet and fell on his hands and knees, but Dog didn’t wait for him. He just released his wrist and vanished through the doorway. Clancy scrambled upright and took off after him, pressing his hands together to dull the stinging. His palm was bleeding again.

He tried not to touch anything as he followed Dog down the stairs and out the back door of the building. The last thing he wanted was to leave a trail of blood for the Bishops to follow. They had wanted them to notice their escape, but this wasn’t the plan. They were going to leave a diversion and escape through the tunnels in the necropolis. Instead, Clancy had completely blown their cover. He just hoped they had enough of a head start. 

Dog had already rounded the towers and entered Sector Six when Clancy heard pounding footsteps behind him. He pushed himself to run faster and ignore the pain in his chest, but he knew he didn’t have a chance.

“Where’s Mouse?” Cat asked frantically.

“He’s coming,” Dog answered. “We don’t have time to wait for him. Come on.”

_ Please wait for me!  _ he wanted to scream, but nothing came out. The satchel bounced against his leg and threw off his balance, and he fell to his hands and knees again. Someone grabbed his hand as he stumbled to his feet, and he looked up in confusion to see Bird’s frantic eyes. 

“Hurry up,” she said, breaking into a run. She didn’t let go of his hand.

“What are -” He paused to catch his breath as he struggled to keep up. “What are we going to do now?”

“Shut up and run.”

His lungs were on fire by the time they reached the edge of the city. The arch leading to the sixth section of the necropolis was only a few blocks away, standing like a dog with its jaws gaping wide, and Clancy realized that he hadn’t been in the necropolis for nearly seven years. It suddenly seemed deadly - the living did not belong in a city of the dead. They were going to die there. And yet if he stayed, he would be caught and punished, and for a moment, he didn’t know which was worse.

One of the guards shouted something behind them, and Bird cursed under her breath. “We’ll have to split up.”

“What?” His heart skipped a beat and he stumbled again. 

“We have to split up,” she repeated, a note of frustration in her voice. “The breach is on the far end of the wall. Don’t know what it looks like or where it is, but it’s there. Find it, and you’ll be out. Head straight from the city for a day and wait for us. If we’re not there after a few hours, keep going by yourself.”

“Wait, I don’t - I can’t -” He tightened his grip on her hand, but she pulled away from him. “I can’t do this alone,” he said desperately.

“Yes, you can.” She flashed him a quick smile. “I know you can. Head toward the morning sun. Remember, east is up.” 

Then she veered down a different street, and he was alone again. 

Every inch of his body screamed in protest as he pushed himself far past his limits. He thought he would collapse at any second, but he forced himself to keep running. The necropolis was only a street away. He could almost see the arch. But the sound of hooves on the asphalt echoed behind him, and he knew he didn’t stand a chance.

He practically dived into the nearest alleyway and scrambled back as far as he could. Crates of old factory equipment lined the walls and blocked his path, and he quickly ducked behind them and cowered on the ground, pulling his knees up to his chest. This was a horrible idea. He should have never chased after Cat, and he never should have agreed to escape with them. 

And yet he wanted to escape into Trench - he had never longed for something so much before. But there was no way he would make it across the necropolis unnoticed. He doubted he’d even make it to the entrance. Why had he let himself believe that he could escape? They had kept him in Dema for his entire life. It was impossible to get out, or else he would have tried long ago.

The Bishop’s horse stopped and the streets went silent. Clancy held his breath and squeezed his satchel closer to his body, his heart pounding like a drum. He could hear someone coming toward the alley, no doubt to check behind the crates. The Bishop was going to catch him. This was it. He squeezed his eyes shut and held as still as possible, but he was sure the Bishop could hear his heartbeat. 

The seconds ticked by like eternities. Finally, the horse and its rider moved away from the alley, and Clancy let out a sigh of relief. For a moment, he seriously considered running back to his flat in Sector Three and abandoning their escape plan, but he shook his head and forced himself to peek around the crate. He was in too deep now. There was no way he could back out of this unharmed. 

Everything was quiet, so he started to stand up. Suddenly, a scream cut through the night, and he flinched hard enough to fall over again. Panic shot through his body like lightning, and he quickly scrambled back behind the crates, heaving in ragged and shallow breaths. 

_ They have Cat.  _

He wanted to cry, but he bit his lip and curled up as tight as he could. He had never been filled with this much terror before in his entire life. He was going to die. They were going to find him and kill him. His breathing grew faster and faster until he became dizzy and lightheaded, and for a moment, he was sure he blacked out. He wished Bird was with him. He even would have felt more confident if Dog was beside him. He just didn’t want to be alone in this madness. He wanted to get out, but not by himself.

Finally, he forced himself to breathe steadily, trying to calm down. What else did he have to lose? He wouldn’t make it back to his apartment unnoticed. He had to try to escape. For Cat, Bird, and Dog. For his  _ friends.  _

He slowly poked his head around the crate again, but the streets were empty. He slipped out of the alleyway as quietly as he could and made his way across the street, keeping his hand tight around the satchel strap. The scabs on his palm were completely scraped off, and his blood stained the strap and the cuffs of his dress shirt. If anyone saw him, they would immediately know something was off. 

_ There.  _ The arch stood open right in front of him. All he had to do was make it across the necropolis and find the breach, and then he would be out. He broke into a run again, his legs and lungs on fire, and ducked into the necropolis.

The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees the moment he stepped into the city of the dead. Hundreds of neon gravestones stood in rows in front of him, extending as far back as he could see. Clancy paused and swallowed hard, a sick guilt settling in his stomach. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He needed to leave. But before he could turn around, he heard shouting from behind him.

“You’ll never take me alive!”

_ Bird.  _ They had Bird. He was going to be alone out there. He wanted to go home, but the screaming from the streets forced him to run again.

Everything was going so wrong.

“There’s another one. Find them and bring them to me. They’re wounded.”

Clancy didn’t think he had the energy to run any faster, but suddenly he was sprinting through the necropolis, pure terror biting at his heels. The bright neon blurred past him as if he was running through some sort of dream, but though he could barely see where he was going, he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. His body wouldn’t let him. He ran until he collapsed at the base of the outer wall, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. His mouth filled with the slight taste of blood, and he swallowed with difficulty. He couldn’t give up now. He was so close. 

He could hear hoofbeats behind him, approaching rapidly. He only had a few precious seconds to find the breach and escape, but he could barely stand. His legs were jelly and he had to lean most of his weight up against the wall to even keep his balance. 

Bird had said the breach was along the east side of the wall. It could be anywhere. He didn’t even know what it looked like. Was there some sort of hole or tunnel, or was it more complicated, like a lever or a door? Maybe the outsiders had climbed the wall, and there was nothing on this side. He had just cornered himself. 

He dragged himself along the edge of the wall for a few feet before his foot sunk a good six inches into the dirt. He immediately dropped down and scooped the dirt away with his hands, revealing a small hole, just big enough to squeeze into. He glanced behind him, but he couldn’t quite see the Bishop pursuing him, so he wiggled into the small space and found that it traveled under and through the wall. This was it. He’d found the breach. 

The Bishops would certainly find it if he left it uncovered, so he pushed the dirt back up over the hole, though it didn’t stay very nicely. He just hoped it was dark enough to cover him. He backed up deeper into the small tunnel, but then his back hit a slab of solid stone, and his heart jerked in his chest. This wasn’t a tunnel. He was trapped. 

There was just barely enough light to see his hand in front of his face, and the dirt seemed to fill his lungs every time he inhaled. The dirt was packed, but wiggled when he pushed on it, and he suddenly had the horrible realization that it could collapse on him any minute, and he would be buried alive. He wanted to scream in panic, but nothing came out. 

He pressed his back against the stone and pulled his knees to his chest, though there was barely enough room to curl up. He couldn’t even turn around to face the wall. He almost started forward again when he heard the horse approach the wall, stamping at the ground. The Bishop dismounted, and Clancy held his breath as the rider paced the dirt above him. He thought he heard him muttering to himself, but he couldn’t pick up any words. 

At last, they left, no doubt to continue the search, and Clancy let himself breathe again. If he could just wait here for a few more hours, maybe he could sneak back to his apartment and pretend as though none of this ever happened. 

He wasn’t sure how long he waited, but it felt like a lifetime. The earth pressed against him on all sides, stealing his breath and threatening to crush him at any given second. He pushed back against the wall again, and suddenly, it slid, just a little, but it moved just the same. Clancy froze for a moment before he pushed once more, wondering if he was imagining things. Sure enough, a small piece of stone slid backward with a soft grinding sound. This really was the breach. He was sitting in a secret tunnel. 

Somehow, he managed to wiggle himself around until he was facing the wall, and then he pushed with every bit of strength he had. Slowly, the rock gave in to the pressure, and eventually fell into a wider tunnel. There was a tiny glimmer of light at the end, and he crawled toward it as fast as he could. 

The wall was much thicker than he had thought, and he crawled for a few minutes before the tunnel began to slope upward again. He climbed as fast as he could, desperate for something other than the crushing earth around him, and finally, his hand broke through the soft pile of dirt and grabbed a tuft of grass. 

He had never felt more relieved in his entire life. 

The tunnel was covered with dirt and sticks to hide it, and Clancy had to push them out of the way before he could drag himself out above ground again. He shook the dirt out of his hair and wiped his face for a moment before he felt it. Wind. Fresh air. He could practically taste it. He looked up at the wall towering over him, and suddenly it hit him. He was out. He was in Trench. 

Suddenly, everything felt clearer, as if he had just put his glasses on after weeks without them. Some sort of animal chirped in the grass around him, and he could hear a river in the distance. Even the sky seemed closer, as if he could reach out and grab a handful of stars. He felt like he could truly breathe again; as though a massive weight had just lifted off his shoulders. 

He was  _ free.  _


	21. Twenty Øne

The stillness set a familiar weight on the room, and beads of sweat dripped down the prisoner’s forehead. His face was bruised and bloody from resisting the guards, as well as the advisors’ interrogation, but his jaw was set and his fists were clenched in the shackles, filling his entire body with determination. Eight Bishops stood in front of him, watching him.

“Jack,” Andre finally said, his voice dry and almost apathetic.

“If you think I’m going to give you any information, you’re dead wrong,” Jack said through gritted teeth, tugging at the restraints on his wrists and ankles. 

Andre simply tipped his head slightly. “Why did you want to leave?”

“This place is a prison!” The louder he shouted, the thicker the stillness returned. “You aren’t helping us. You’re keeping us in to torment us!”

“Are we?” Andre looked over his shoulder at the other Bishops. “I don’t think so. We are protecting you.”

“You’re sick and twisted, and I want nothing to do with you,” the prisoner spat, glaring at them with dangerous fire in his eyes.

“Bishop Listo has a few questions for you,” Andre said, stepping back. “Do not disrespect him as you have disrespected me.”

“Tell me about the girl,” Listo ordered. “The leader. What did she say to you?”

“Nothing.” 

His blackened hands stretched out toward the prisoner’s neck and seized him with their dark embrace. “Try again.”

Jack narrowed his eyes and curled his lip in a sneer, but he suddenly jerked with a gasp for breath and threw his head back. Listo’s fingers dragged across his neck, leaving deep lines of shadow behind. The prisoner slumped forward, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath, and only found it again when Listo withdrew his touch. 

“Tell me about the girl.”

“I...can’t,” Jack said through gasping breaths. 

Listo didn’t even have to touch him. He dug right into his mind and squeezed him from the inside out. This time, Jack screamed as the Bishop released him. His skin grew deathly pale, and his entire body spasmed out of control.

“Do not make me ask you again.”

“Don’t - don’t know her name,” the prisoner sputtered out, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Said to call her - call her Bird.”

“Your citizens seem to be getting smarter,” Reisdro remarked. 

“She is not from Sector One,” Andre said, staring at the twitching man in front of them. “All are accounted for, except this one.”

“How did you meet her?” Listo asked.

Jack shook his head twice, trying desperately to twist out of the chair. Listo just sighed softly and put his hands on his neck again. The man couldn’t even cry out. He opened his mouth in a silent scream and went completely rigid, every muscle in his body seizing. The Bishop held him for nearly a full minute before releasing him, and he hung his head as tears sprung to his eyes. 

“We have all day, boy,” Andre said.

“F-found us,” Jack wheezed out, unable to speak any louder. “Me and - and Sadie. In - in One. During Worship.”

“Tell me about Sadie.”

“She’s from - from Four -”

Instantly, all eyes turned to Reisdro, and he scowled. “I knew that girl was trouble. I should have smeared her long ago.”

“Smearing isn’t always the answer, my friend,” Keons said softly from the back of the room.

“Now is not the time to bring your little experiment into our council,” Sacarver hissed.

“He is more than an experiment,” the former said, his brow furrowing slightly. “He is the future of Vialism.”

Andre cleared his throat, bringing their attention back to the matter at hand. “There were four of you. Who was the other?”

Jack stayed still for a moment, sucking in raspy breaths and shaking in pain. “Called him Mouse,” he finally whispered. “F-found him in Three. He - he followed S-Sadie. Got caught up in - caught up in the plan.”

Again, all eyes shifted to the back of the room, but Keons just raised an eyebrow. “Tell me about this...Mouse. What was he like?”

Instead of answering, the prisoner coughed hard, drops of blood speckling his dirty jeans. His nose was bleeding now, and his skin grew blotchy with black and purple bruises. Listo moved to seize him again, but Keons held up his hand to stop him. 

“Jack,” he said firmly, crouching down in front of him. He seemed almost calm and gentle for a moment, but he suddenly grabbed his chin and forced him to look up at him, cold, collected anger washing off of him. “Tell me about Mouse, Jack, or we will find a more permanent punishment, do you understand?”

Jack coughed again, fighting to keep his eyes open. “S-small. He’s small,” he stuttered. “Glasses. Sh-shy. Nervous.” The prisoner’s skin was ash white, and he was no longer shaking. Keons held his entire weight up by his chin. 

“Anything else?” the Bishop said.

“Twitchy. Had - had a pen, I think.” Jack’s eyelids fluttered as he fought to remain conscious. 

Keons’ fingers tightened on the prisoner’s face. “Is he hurt?” Jack didn’t respond, and Keons slammed him against the back of the chair. “Is he hurt?” he growled.

“Cuts - cuts on his - his…” Jack paused and swallowed hard, barely able to speak. “Hand. On his hand.”

After a long moment, Keons released him and stood up, his shoulders tight with anger. “He got out.”

“It seems as though your experiment didn’t end so well, did it?” Vetomo commented. 

Keons whipped around and jabbed his finger at him. “Don’t say a word,” he hissed. “He’ll come back.”

“You also said that he wouldn’t cause trouble,” Lisden said, “and look what that caused. He is the one who stopped the Assemblage. That is the most important event in the entire city, and he destroyed it with a single mistake.”

“He  _ will _ come back,” Keons insisted, narrowing his eyes. “And not only that. He will come back willingly. Even if I have to retrieve him, he will come willingly.”

“You sound incredibly sure of yourself,” Vetomo chuckled.

“I know he will be willing, because he is filled to the brim with guilt. That boy has nothing but shame inside him.”

Someone knocked on the door and frantically entered the room, breathing hard. “We found the breach,” the advisor said, trying to catch his breath.

Instantly, the Bishops turned and started for the door, each giving their own orders. The advisor backed up, blinking in confusion as he tried to process all of the information. “I’ll take you there,” he finally said. “It’s in Sector Six.”

Keons watched as the others left the room, and then turned back to Jack. “You’ve been very helpful, child,” he said softly. The prisoner didn’t even look at him as he crouched down again. “Therefore, I will be merciful.”

“Th-thank you,” Jack breathed.

Keons just smiled and drew a thin knife from his belt. He ran his thumb over the tip of the blade, examining its sharpness, and then suddenly slashed the knife across the prisoner’s neck. Blood squirted from the massive gash and poured from his throat, soaking his clothes within seconds. Jack gasped in terror and pain, spasming as he fought for air against the flow of blood, desperate to survive.

Keons leaned close to his pale face, meeting the prisoner’s frantic eyes. “ _ Never _ go near my son again,” he said, his voice low.


	22. Twenty Twø

_I've made it out._

_I feel weightless. I know that place has always held me down, but for the first time, I can feel the unity that I hoped for. It's been three nights now, and my breathing has changed - it's slower, and more full. It's like the air out here is actually worth taking in._

_I can see it back in the distance, and I'd be lying if I said that it wasn't constantly on my mind. I wish I could turn that fear off, but maybe the further I go, the less that fear will affect me. I feel betrayed by what I assumed was home. If I ever end up back there, I won't be able to look at it the same way._

_They are asleep. They're so sure that they know the truth, and carry on throughout their day with the same meaningless tasks. They've forgotten to look up, and to look outward, to understand that this isn't about 'in there.'_

_This is about 'out here.'_

_This new world surrounds me. I used to think the walls back home were massive - these green cliffs engulf me, and place me right in the middle - Trench is quite precarious at times, and it's easy to grow weary. But it's real, and it's true, and I'd much rather endure reality than to mindlessly be obedient to a life that someone else created for me. I've obsessed about this world for so long, that if feels more like home than anything I've experienced. Somehow, in this vast openness, I feel more protected than ever._

_The landscape feels endless, and I've found myself walking for hours without any true evidence of getting further down. But I've seen plants and colors out here that I'm not sure I've witnessed before. There's a beauty in the strangest places, - and the curiosity of what's next continues to motivate me._

_I wonder who else is out here. If what I assumed inside is true, there's got to be more like me. Sometimes I'll feel a presence, only to look up and see nothing. It's just another thing that I'm afraid of that also excites me. It all just confirms all of the things that I hoped to be true for all of this time._

_I am out here and I am very alive. I'm sometimes scared, but always discovering something new, and I will not stop. Cover me!_

_\- Clancy_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from dmaorg


End file.
